LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 



Chap.. _.. Copyright Xo. 

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U^a 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 






I 



Lessons in Literature 



WITH ILLUSTRATIVE SELECTIONS. 



A TEXT-BOOK FOR SCHOOLS 
AND ACADEMIES. 




5miv-?£.] 



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PUBLISHED BY AINSWORTH & COMPANY, 

1896. 



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PREFACE. 

The main object of the compiler of this work was to 
embody in a volume of convenient size, material to assist 
the student in making profitable use of the time allotted 
to the study of literature. It is a fact acknowledged by 
only too many earnest teachers that much valuable time 
is wasted in learning biographies where the avowed in- 
tention is that of studying literature. 

This work is not intended to be a universal history of 
English literature; it is merely a text-book to assist in 
imparting both knowledge and culture, — knowledge by 
its historic facts, culture by its illustrative material, which 
it is hoped will open the gate and set the student on the 
way to those delights of literary study found only in re- 
tirement. 

An attempt to learn about too many writers is unsatis- 
factory in its results, but an acquaintance with certain 
English authors is imperatively demanded of those readers 
who would aspire to the title of English scholars. While 
|we have endeavored to give prominence to those who 
.•have illustrated in prose or in verse the great tongue 
Iwhich is fast gaining supremacy among the languages 
of the world, the needs of Catholic students have been 
considered, and it is with pride and with pleasure that we 
jiote the growing prominence of able Catholic writers. 

In preparing this work, the plan as first conceived was 

^hat it should bear the test of actual use in the class-room, 

1 that it should be held subject to revision before being 

' presented to the public. Having been thus used with 

3 



4 PREFACE. 

interest and profit by the compiler, it is offered to other 
teachers with the hope that they too may find it useful. 

The selections from Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier and 
Emerson are used by permission of and arrangement with 
Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. The writer is under a 
similar obligation to Mr. H. F. Brownson, and to Messrs. 
D. Appleton & Co. for permission to use selections from 
their publications; also to the Cassell Publishing Com- 
pany of New York for selections from the "Life of John 
Boyle O'Reilly," copyright, 1891. 






LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 



SUGGESTIONS TO TEACHERS. 

"Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know 
Are a substantial world both pure and good; 
Round these with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, 
Our pastimes and our happiness will grow."— Wordsworth. 

The elementary study of literature consists in reading 
the works of worthy writers; it is far more than a cata- 
logue of names and dates. Some information about the 
author and the composition of the work to be read, and 
about its fame and merits is a natural introduction. Thor- 
ough study should be given to masterpieces of literature — 
literature by eminence, and especially to the best pas- 
sages in these masterpieces. These express in happy 
speech what the great and good have thought and felt and 
done. By careful study of their works, we can repeat in 
ourselves their thoughts and feelings, their hopes, their 
aspirations, ideals and resolves. 

Before beginning this study, let the class review 
English prosody, becoming familiar with the various 
kinds of metrical feet, with the Chaucerian and Spenserian 
stanzas, and the sonnet. Let word study come first, thus 
exacting a clear comprehension of the text, next take 
clause by clause to make clear the train of thought. Such 
is the primary study of literature, re-thinking its great 
Jchoughts. 

The biographical and descriptive portion of this work 
5 



6 SUGGESTIONS TO TEACHERS. 

will be found to be brief; but to write of one great lum- 
inary, of Newman for instance, as the subject deserves, 
would require more than one volume and a lifetime. The 
compiler aims rather at suggesting, at inspiring desires 
that may lead young minds to do great deeds, deeds to be 
felt in their own lives, and that may both here and here- 
after make the doers of them loved of God and of man. 
Encourage in your pupils a taste for good reading, 
and teach them that reading is not merely the gathering 
of a stock of ideas — it is the gathering of material which 
the mind should work into thought. "This is the point 
wherein great readers are apt to be mistaken. Those who 
have read of everything are thought to understand every- 
thing too ; but it is not always so. Reading furnishes the 
mind only with materials of knowledge, it is thinking 
makes them ours; without this, what we read is but so 
much loose matter floating in the brain." The mind 
should be early trained to this task of thinking while we 
are reading. At first the task is not easy, but exercise 
will give facility, and only those who have acquired it 
have the true key to books and the clue to lead them 
through the maze of opinions to certainty and truth. 






CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Introduction .. — 9 

Anglo-Saxon Works — 9 

Coedmon _» 11 

The Venerable Bede --- 15 

Alfred the Great 16 

Geoffrey of Monmouth 18 

Norman Rule in England 18 

Roger Bacon _ 21 

Rhyming Chroniclers 22 

Chapter I.— Early English Period 24 

Chaucer .. 26 

Prologue to " Canterbury Tales" 36 

Foreign Contemporaries 46 

English Contemporaries 47 

Chapter II.— Elizabethan Period 57 

The Drama -- 61 

Shakespeare 64 

"Macbeth" 70 

Foreign Contemporaries 82 

English Contemporaries 85 

Chapter III.— Civil War Period 109 

Milton 111 

"Paradise Lost, " 118 

Foreign Contemporaries 124 

English Contemporaries 7 126 

Chapter IV. Elizabethan Period J__- 143 

Alexander Pope 145 

"Essay on Man" — . 151 

Foreign Contemporaries 153 

English Contemporaries 155 

Dean Swift 155 

Chapter V.— Modern Times 198 

Historical Notes 198 

William Wordsworth 200 

" Intimations of Immortality " 206 

Alfred Tennyson. 214 

"The Lotos Eaters". 217 

Chapter VI 246 

John Henry, Cardinal Newman 246 

Ideal Authorship Described 254 

Nicholas Patrick, Cardinal Wiseman 256 

Henry Edward, Cardinal Manning 260 

Chapter VII.— American Literature 313 

Colonial and Revolutionary Period 313 

Progress of Literature 314 

James Otis 314 

Benjamin Franklin ... .315 

Other Writers 319 

Chapter VIII.— National Period 321 

Progress of Literature 321 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 322 

William Cullen Bryant 329 

Oliver WendellHolmes 335 

. Other Writers 352 

Chapter VIII.— Continued 356 

Prose Writers 356 

Daniel Webster 356 

Nathaniel Hawthorne 360 

Ralph Waldo Emerson 367 

Washinerton Irving 372 

Other Writers... 391 



A CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE OF THE POETS- 
LAUREATE OF ENGLAND. 

THE VOLUNTEER LAUREATES. 

(Not Officially Appointed.) 

Geoffrey Chaucer 1368 to 1400 

Sir John Gower 1400 to 1402 

Henry Scogan 

John Kay 

Andrew Bernard 1486 to 

John Skelton 1489 to 

Robert Whittington 1512 to 

Richard Edwards 1561 to 

Edmund Spenser . . . 1590 to 

Samuel Daniel 1598 to 

THE POETS-LAUREATE. 

(By Royal Appointment.) 
Letters-patent to this office were first granted in 1630, the 
salary being £100 and 40 gallons of canary per annum. The 
holder of the office was required to compose a birthday ode 
for the king or celebrate in verse some national victory. 
Later on, in the time of Southey, the wine was commuted by 
a money payment and the birthday ode abandoned. The 
office is now a sinecure. 

Samuel Daniel Not formally appointed 

Ben Jonson Laureate from 1630 to 1637 

Sir William Davenant " " 1637 to 1668 

John Dryden " " 1668 to 1688 I 

Thomas Shadwell " " 1688 to 1692 

Nahum Tate " " 1692 to 1715 

Nicholas Rowe " " 1715 to 1718 

Laurence Eusden " " 1718 to 1730 

Colley Cibber " " 1730 to 1757 

William Whitehead " " 1757 to 1788 

Thomas Warton " " 1788 to 1790 - 

Henrv James Pve " " 1790 to 1813 

Robert Southey " " 1813 to 1813 

William Wordsworth " " 1843 to 1850 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson " " 1850 to 1892 

Alfred Austin " " 1895 to 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

INTRODUCTION. 

Anglo=Saxon Works. — The earliest specimens of 
English literature are two Anglo-Saxon poems, written 
probably in the tenth century. One of these, the ballad- 
epic "Beowulf," is the most ancient and the most inter- 
esting of the old English poems, presenting, as it does, 
characters instinct with chivalry and generosity. The au- 
thor's name is unknown, but the manuscript still kept in 
the British Museum is undoubtedly the work of a monk. 
It is written continuously in Danish characters, resem- 
bling our manuscript of prose. The poem contains more 
than six thousand lines, and the scene of its action indi- 
cates that it was composed by Saxons who lived before 
the invasion of England. Beowulf was a hero, somewhat 
like Theseus among the Greeks. 

A modernized version of the story runs thus: 

Hrothgar, King of Denmark, in order to commemorate his 

success over all his enemies, built a large mead-hall, a lordly 

palace, wherein his warriors and councilors might feast. A 

mighty evil spirit, terrible and grim, called Grendel, whose 

fastnesses were dank and fenny places, was angry because 

i the Danes were so prosperous. He came to the mead-hall 

Rafter all were asleep and carried off thirty of the Danes and 

feasted on their carcasses. For twelve long years he often 

. came and slew and fed upon many. Hrothgar grieved bit-, 

I terly for his people because he could not help them. 

Away to the westward, among the people of the Geats, 
Beowulf hears of Hrothgar's trouble; so he sails to Denmark, 
and undertakes to attack Grendel. As weapons will be of no 



10 INTRODUCTION. 

service, Beowulf, unarmed, awaits the coming of the foe. 
Grendel comes, tears the throat of a sleeping warrior, and 
drinks his blood; then lays hold of Beowulf. Beowulf grasps 
Grendel by the shoulder, and the dreadful fight begins. The 
palace rocks and thunders with their battle. Grendel finds his 
enemy too strong for him, and, in his frantic efforts to escape, 
his shoulder and shoulder-blade are torn from his body. 
Grendel flies to the fens, where Death clutches him, and he 
dies. 

After a great feast over this victory, given to Beowulf, 
Grendel's mother awakes from her dwelling in the cold 
streams, from her home in the terrible waters, and seeks the 
mead-hall to avenge her son. She slays Aeschere, one of 
Hrothgar's councilors, and, snatching the arm of her son, 
which had been hung up in the mead-hall, escapes. Beowulf 
seeks her in her home under the foul black water, into v* T hicb 
even the hunted stag would not plunge in order to save its 
life. When Beowulf reaches the bottom, Grendel's mother 
drags him into her cave, and the struggle begins. BeowulfY, 
own weapons fail him, so he seizes a huge sword hanging on 
the wall of the cave, and with it severs her head from her 
body. 

Before the great feast which follows this crowning victory, 
Hrothgar, the wise and hoary king, the mingled-haired, speaks 
to Beowulf: "0, my friend Beowulf, great is thy glory, and 
uplifted high, and wondrous are the ways of God, who, 
through the wisdom of his great mind, distributed so much 
strength to one man, making him a refuge city for the peo- 
ples. But suffer a kindly word of counsel, dear warrior: When | 
all things are subject to a man, when the world turneth at ] 
his will, he forgetteth that the flower of his strength and his 
glory are but for a little while before he leave these poor * 
days and fade away forgotten, and another come in his place. * 
But the great shepherd of the Heavens liveth on, and raiseth 
up and putteth down whom he will. Dear friend, beware of \ 
pride; which groweth up and anon beguileth the hearl so 
fast to sleep that the warrior remembereth not how Death 
will overpower him at the last. So gloried I, when with spear > 
and sword having freed the Hring Danes from all their ene- 
mies under heaven, I built this mead-hall in my pride, and 



INTRODUCTION. 11 

reckoned not upon my adversary. But God sent Grendel many 
years to trouble me, till my pride was humbled, and he 
brought me a deliverer in thee." 

Beowulf returns to his home laden with rich presents of 
gems and twisted gold, which he generously shares with his 
friends and kinsfolk. After some years, spent in good and 
quiet deeds, for Beowulf was gentle of mind, he inherits the 
kingdom and reigns fifty years. 

His last exploit is with a fiery dragon that abides in the 
cavern of a rocky cliff hard by the sea. This cavern is full 
of gold and jewels that have been secretly stolen during a 
space of three hundred years. One of Beowulf's men wanders 
into the cave and steals a gold drinking-cup. The infuriated 
dragon threatens to devastate the whole land with fire. The 
waves of fire reach even the palace of Beowulf. He, therefore, 
goes out to meet the dragon, single-handed. The contest is 
furious. Wiglaf, only kinsman of Beowulf, alone dares to 
assist him. Beowulf grapples the dragon, and Wiglaf cuts the 
body in two. The fiery blood is on Beowulf's hands; he feels 
the poison boil up in his breast; and after Wiglaf brings him 
an armful of the treasure to behold, his soul parts quietly from 
his body. 

Rude as the poetry is, its hero is grand; and he is so 
simply by his deeds of chivalry and generosity. The poem 
is supposed to be allegorical, the monster being a poison- 
ous exhalation from the marshes. Should this supposi- 
tion be a correct one, this old poem shows the fondness 
of our ancestors for allegorical expression. 

Caedmoii's Paraphrase. — The other poem is the 
jepic called Caedmon's Paraphrase of the Scriptures. It 
was written about two centuries after the Angles and 
•Saxons began their invasion of England. An interest- 
ing legend is connected with this work. Caedmon had 
learned nothing of the art of verse, the alliterative jingle 
so common among his fellows; wherefore, being some- 
times at feasts, when all agreed to sing in turn, he no 
sooner saw the harp come towards him than he rose from 



12 INTRODUCTION. 

the board and went homeward. Once when he had done 
this, and had gone from the feast to the stable where he 
had that night charge of the cattle, there appeared to him 
in his restless sleep one who bade him sing. "I can't 
sing/" said Caedmon. "I came out hither from the feast 
because I could not sing." The stranger said, ''But you 
must sing to me." "What must I sing?" said Caedmon; 
and the voice replied, "Sing the origin of creatures." An 
inspiration came to the peasant, and the words of his 
song lingered in his memory when he awoke. Visiting 
the monastery of Whitby in Northumbria, soon after 
this, his new endowment was recognized as a gift from 
heaven, and at his earnest solicitation he was received 
as a member of the religious order established there. 
Above the harbor of Whitby rises a dark cliff, jutting out 
towards the sea, and on this rocky stronghold stood the 
monastery. It is a wild upland, and the sea beats furiously 
beneath it. Standing there one feels that it is a fitting 
birth-place for the poetry of the nation. Amid such 
scenes Caedmon converted into harmonious verse large 
portions of Holy Writ, and sang in magnificent strains 
the terrors of the day of judgment, the pains of hell, and 
the sweetness of heaven. By his verses the minds of 
manv were incited to despise the world and to aspire to 
heaven. 

He has been styled the Anglo-Saxon Milton because 
he sang of Lucifer and of Paradise Lost. Bede tells us 
that no other religious poet could compare with Caedmon, 
for "he did not learn the art of poetry from men. but 
from God." It has been supposed that this great poet of 
the Anglo-Saxons suggested to Milton the subject oi 
his renowned epic. Both describe wicked angels, their 
expulsion from heaven, their descent into hell, and the 



INTRODUCTION 13 

creation of the world. There are many passages in which 
the epic poet of the seventeenth century has thoughts 
closely resembling those written by the monk of the 
seventh century. 

The following selection from Caedmon's Paraphrase 
suggests equivalent passages in Books I. and II. of "Para- 
dise Lost": 

Then spake the haughty king, who of angels erst was 
brightest, fairest in heaven, beloved of his master, to his Lord 
dear, until they turned to folly; so that with him for his 
madness God himself became, the mighty, angry in mind, cast 
him into that house of perdition, down on that new bed, and 
after gave him a name; said that the highest should not he 
called Satan thenceforward; bade him the swart hell's abyss 
rule, not with God war. Satan harangued, sorrowing spake, 
he who hell thenceforth should rule, govern the abyss. He was 
erst God's angel, fair in heaven, until him his mind urged, 
and his pride most of all, that he would not the Lord of 
hosts' words revere; boiled within him his thought about 
his heart, but was without him his dire punishment. Then 
spake he the words: "This narrow place is most unlike that 
other we erst knew, high in heaven's kingdom, which my 
master bestowed on me, though we it, for the All-Powerful, 
may not possess, must cede our realm; yet hath he not 
done rightly that he hath struck us down to the fiery abyss 
of the hot hell, bereft us of heaven's kingdom, hath it de- 
creed with mankind to people. That of sorrows is to me the 
greatest, that Adam shall, who of earth was wrought, ray 
strong seat possess, be to him in delight, and we endure 'this 
torment, misery in this hell. O, had I power of my hands, 
and might one season he without, but one winter's space, they 
with this -host I — but around me lie iron bonds, presseth this 
cord of chain. I am powerless! we have so hard the clasps 
of hell so firmly grasped! Here is a vast fire above and 
underneath, never did I see a loathlier landskip; the flame 
abateth not, hot over hell. Me hath the clasping of these 
rings, this hard polished band, impeded in my course, debarred 
me from my way; my feet are bound, my hands manacled, of 



14 INTRODUCTION. 

these hell-doors are the ways obstructed; so with aught I 
cannot from these limb-bonds escape; about me lie, of hard 
iron forged with heat, huge gratings with which me God hath 
fastened by the neck; thus perceive I that he knowtth my 
mind, and that knew also the Lord of hosts, that should us 
through Adam evil befall, about the realm of heaven, where I 
had power of my hands, but we now suffer chastisements in 
hell, which are darkness and heat, grim, bottomless; God hath 
us himself swept into these swart mists; thus he cannot ac- 
cuse us of any sin, that we against him in the land framed 
evil; yet hath he deprived us of the light, cast us into the 
greatest of all torments; we may not for this execute venge- 
ance, reward him with aught of hostility, because he hath be- 
reft us of the light. He hath now devised a world where he 
hath wrought man after his own likeness, with whom he will 
repeople the kingdom of heaven with pure souls; therefore 
must we strive zealously, our wrongs repair, corrupt him there 
in his will, if we may it in any way devise. Now I have no 
confidence further in this bright state, that which he seems 
long destined to enjoy, that bliss with his angels' power, we 
can not that ever obtain. That we the mighty God's mind 
weaken, let us avert it now from the children of men, that 
heavenly kingdom, now we may not have it; let us so do that 
they forfeit his favor, that they pervert that which he with his 
word commanded; then with them will he be wroth in mind, 
will cast them from his favor, then shall they seek this hell, 
and these grim depths; then may we have them to ourselves 
as vassals, the children of men in this fast durance. — Thorpe. 

The following selection describes the battle between 
the Sodomites and Elamites, Genesis xiv. 1-12. It illus- 
trates not only the form of versification, but also the 
rugged vigor of Caedmon's imagination: 

They then marched together, 
Tbe javelins were loud, 
Wroth the bands of slaughter, 
The sod fowl sang 
Amid the dark shafts, 
Dewy of feathers, 



INTRODUCTION. 15 

The rush expecting. 

The warriors hastened 

In powerful bodies, 

Bold of mood, 

Till that the hosts of nations 

Had come 

Together from afar, 

From south and north, 

With helmets decked. 

There was hard play, 

An interchange of deadly weapons, 

A great war cry, 

A loud battle crash. 

Drew with their hands 

The warriors from their sheaths 

The ring-hilted sword, 

Of edges doughty; 

There was found easily 

Death work to the man 

Who ere was not 

With slaughter satiate. — Thorpe. 

Among the other Anglo-Saxon writers of this early 
time. Venerable Bede and King Alfred the Great deserve 
special mention. 

The Venerable Bede (673-735).— This famous per- 
sonage tells us that when but seven years of age he was 
placed under the care of the Abbot Benedict, in the Abbey 
of Wearmouth. Some years later the Abbey of Jarrow 
was founded, and Bede went thither. The rest of his 
biography is contained in the following passage, trans- 
lated from one of his works: 

"Spending all the remaining time of my life in that mon- 
astery, I wholly applied myself to the study of Scripture, and 
in the interval between the hours of regular discipline and the 
duties of singing in the church, I have always taken pleasure 
in learning, or teaching, or writing something. In the nine- 
teenth year of my age I received deacon's orders; in the thir- 



16 INTRODUCTION. 

tieth those of the priesthood, from which time till the fifty- 
ninth year of my age I have made it my business, for the use 
of me and mine, to compile out of the works of the venerable 
fathers and to interpret and explain according to their mean- 
ing, these following pieces." 

His writings form almost an encyclopedia of the knowl- 
edge of his day. He compiled text-books on mathemat- 
ics, astronomy, grammar, rhetoric, dialectics, -music, and 
medicine. But it is by one work that he has made the 
English nation a lasting debtor to him. His "Ecclesias- 
tical History of the Anglo-Saxons," written in Latin, 
was for centuries the only source of knowledge in matters 
relating to the nation's early career. During his last 
illness he was employed in preparing an Anglo-Saxon 
translation of the Gospel of St. John. His disciple, Cuth- 
bert, thus describes the last moments of Venerable Bede: 

" 'There is still a chapter wanting,' said the scribe, as the 
morning drew on, 'and it is hard for thee to question thyself 
any longer.' 'It is easily done,' said Bede; 'take thy pen and 
write quickly.' Amid tears and farewells the day wore on 
to eventide. 'There is yet one sentence unwritten, dear mas- 
ter,' said the boy. 'Write it quickly,' bade the dying man. 
'It is finished now,' said the little scribe, at last. 'You speak 
truth,' said the master; 'all is finished now.' Placed upon the 
pavement his head supported in his scholar's arms, his face 
turned toward the holy place in which he was wont to pray. 
Bede chanted the Gloria Patri. He had just strength enough 
to proceed to the end of the phrase when he breathed out his 
soul with the words, Spiritui Sancto on his lips. 

Alfred the Great (849=90).— One of the extraordinary 

men of this time was King Alfred, who, in 871, succeeded 
his brother Ethelred I. on the throne of fngland. II is 
keen desire for learning was early awakened by his pious 
mother, Osburga, who offered a beautifully decorated 
Saxon poem to the first of her children who should be 






INTRODUCTION. 17 

able to read it. Alfred was the youngest child, but by 
diligent study he won the prize offered by the queen. 

No sooner had he freed his people from the bondage 
of the Danes, than he attempted to free them from the 
fetters of ignorance. At this time illiteracy was almost 
universal, but, in various quarters, King Alfred sought 
out learned men, and inviting them to his court he opened 
schools for the instruction of his subjects. The king 
frequently lamented that Saxon literature contained no 
books of science, and to supply the deficiency, he himself 
undertook the task of translating them. He was nearly 
forty years of age when he began the study of Latin, yet 
he translated many valuable works into his native tongue. 
The patronage and example of the king must have in- 
duced the writing of many works, but few of them have 
escaped the relentless hand of time. 

The admirable manner in which King Alfred regulated 
his time enabled him to give due attention to business, 
study and prayer. He divided the twenty-four hours into 
three equal parts; the first, for exercises of piety; the sec- 
ond, for sleep and necessary refreshments; the third, for 
the duties of his station. Sir Henry Spelman, the cele- 
brated English antiquary and philologist, says of him: 
"O Alfred! the wonder and astonishment of all ages! 
If we reflect on his piety and religion, it would seem that 
'he had always lived in a cloister; if on his warlike ex- 
ploits, that he had never been out of camps; if on his 
learning and writings, that he had spent his whole life in 
a college; if on his wholesome laws and wise administra- 
tion, that these had been his whole study and employ- 
ment." 

Among the most important of his translations are 
Bede's "Ecclesiastical History," Pope Gregory's "Pastoral 



18 INTRODUCTION. 

Cares," the "Soliloquies" of St. Augustine, and the "Con- 
solations of Philosophy," by Boethius. 

Geoffrey of Monmouth ( - 1154). — Among the 

later writers, Geoffrey of Monmouth, a Welsh Bishop, de- 
serves mention. He is the author of a well-known "His- 
tory of the Britons." Historically it is of little value, but 
it has proved to be a mine of literary wealth to subsequent 
writers. The fiction of Sabrina, as given by Geoffrey, be- 
comes "the virgin daughter of Locrine" in Milton's "Co- 
mus." The story of Lear, king of Britain about 753 
B. C, is expanded into Shakespeare's magnificent tragedy 
of that name. The history of Gorboduc, called Gorbo- 
gudo by Geoffrey, gave to Sackville the material for our 
first English tragedy. As a crowning feat, Geoffrey res- 
cued from oblivion the story of King Arthur and the 
Knights of the Round Table. Drayton reproduces much 
of this in his "Polyolbion"; Spenser drew largely from it 
in his "Faery Queene," and Tennyson has added much 
to his reputation by putting it into modern verse. 

Norman Rule in England (1066). — When Harold, 
the last of the Saxon kings, fell pierced by an arrow on 
the battle-field of Senlac or Hastings, the voice of the 
British nation seemed stilled forever. William the Con- 
queror brought Englishmen under Norman rule. The 
most important changes resulting from the conquest were 
the establishment of the feudal tenure of land in Englancfl 
the introduction of the chivalric spirit, and the separation 
of society into two classes — a foreign nobility and a dis- 
contented people. The Saxon thane, the friend and com- 
panion of his humble fellows, was superseded by the arro- 
gant and oppressing Norman baron. 

These Normans were a mixed race. Early in the tenth 
century piratical Scandinavians made conquests of 



INTRODUCTION. 19 

territory in the north of France, and, later, wrested from 
the degenerate sons of Charlemagne the whole of the 
province which has since borne the name of Normandy; 
they held the conquered people in subjection by means 
of the feudal system, and, with slight modifications, adopt- 
ed the French tongue. The gradual blending of these 
two races produced the Norman nationality. Its culture 
was expressed in literature, in the delicacy of ornament, 
in architecture, in oratory, and was far superior to that 
of any other European nation in the Middle Ages. Its 
refinement was equaled by its valor. When this culti- 
vated people invaded and conquered England, they found 
their subjects illiterate, without social culture, given to 
coarse dissipation and determined to treat the victors with 
unyielding hatred. That hatred was reciprocated. For 
two centuries the Norman swayed the tyrant's sceptre; 
the Saxon yielded unwilling homage. Nor was there 
any disposition to blend interests and sympathies until 
the Norman, exiled from Normandy, came to consider 
himself an Englishman, not a foreigner in possession of 
English soil. 

No sooner had William the Conqueror secured the 
throne of England than he began the work of extirpating 
the Saxon language. This he did by ordering that the 
elements of grammar should be taught in the French 
language; and that all deeds, pleadings in court, and 
laws should be written in French. Saxon then fell into 
contempt, and those of the old race who were more 
politic than patriotic set to work vigorously to acquire 
the favorite tongue of the nobility and higher classes. 
Those who had some pretensions to education took pride 
in speaking "the Frensche of Paris." Still the mother- 
tongue could not be trampled out, and an idiom sprang 



20 INTRODUCTION. 

up called the Semi-Saxon. This differed in many re- 
spects from the old Saxon, but it was not as yet suffi- 
ciently complete to constitute a new language. Hallam 
says: "Nothing can be more difficult than to determine, 
except by an arbitrary line, the commencement of the 
English language. For when we compare the earliest 
English of the thirteenth century with the Anglo-Saxon 
of the twelfth, it seems hard to pronounce why it should 
pass for a separate language rather than a modification 
of the former. 1 ' 

The effort of the Norman dynasty to substitute the 
French for the Anglo-Saxon language had not the de- 
sired effect, but it drove out of use many words of the 
native tongue, and checked for a time the advance of its 
literature. The dearth, however, of Semi-Saxon writings 
proves no lack of mental activity in the nation. This 
was the age that beheld the foundation of the great uni- 
versities, when the study of philosophy and theology ex- 
cited universal enthusiasm. We are told that in 1231 the 
number of students at Oxford, together with their at- 
tendants, amounted to thirty thousand. The English 
monasteries, too, were so many centers of study and 
learning. But, in both the universities and the monas- 
teries, Latin was still the chief medium of imparting and 
transmitting knowledge. 

In the half-developed state of most European languages 
during the Middle Ages, a common union was indispens- 
able; and Latin was the link that united the several 
countries of Europe. Nay, more, it connected the me- 
diaeval and the modern with the ancient world. I lad no] 
the Latin been adopted by the church whilst the new 
tongues were gradually developing and settling inn* form, 
tlie world would have been dark indeed. I low little 



INTRODUCTION. 21 

would have reached us of the thought, life, or events of 
that period! "If it be demanded," says Hallam, "by what 
cause it happened that a few sparks of ancient learning 
survived throughout this long winter, we can only ascribe 
their preservation to the establishment of Christianity. 
Religion alone made a bridge, as it were, across the cjiaos, 
and has linked the two periods of ancient and modern 
civilization. Without this connecting principle, Europe 
might indeed have awakened to intellectual pursuits; but 
the "memory of Greece and Rome would have been feebly 
preserved by tradition — and the monuments of those na- 
tions might have excited, on the return of civilization, 
that vague sentiment of speculation and wonder, with 
which men now contemplate Persepolis or the Pyramids. 
The sole hope for literature depended on the Latin lan- 
guage; and I do not see why that should not have been 
lost, if three circumstances in the prevailing religious sys- 
tem had not conspired to maintain it — the papal suprem- 
acy, the monastic institutions, and the use of the Latin 
liturgy." 

The literary productions of the eleventh and twelfth 
centuries in England are mainly the works of ecclesiastics. 
Among these may be mentioned Lanfranc, Archbishop of 
Canterbury; St. Anselm, the successor of Lanfranc; Lay- 
amon, a priest of Worcestershire ; and Wace, an Anglo- 
Norman priest and poet. An alien language and litera- 
ture ruled in the land, and the result upon Anglo-Saxon 
literature was inevitable. It had entirely disappeared be- 
fore the accession of Edward III. 

Roger Bacon (1214=1294). — This English monk of the 
Franciscan Order propounded most enlightened views 
upon the value of experimental philosophy, but so far 
was he in advance of his age that his scientific researches 



22 INTRODUCTION. 

found no imitators. His descriptions of the nature and 
effects of convex and concave lenses led the way to the 
discovery of spectacles, telescopes and microscopes. He 
is also credited with the invention of the air-pump, the 
camera-obscura, the diving-bell and gunpowder. 

Bacon wrote in Latin, and of his "Opus Majus" the 
critic Whewell says: "It is at once the encyclopedia and 
the Novum Organum of the thirteenth century." 
RHYMING CHRONICLERS. 

The Rhyming Chroniclers are so called because they 
professed to give in rhyming metre a record of history. 
One of the earliest of these writers was Layamon, a priest 
of Worcestershire, who produced, at the close of the 
twelfth century, a history called "Brutus of England." 
This work is known as "The Brut of Layamon." 

About 1290, a history of England from Brutus to the 
death of Henry III., was written by Robert, a monk of 
Gloucester Abbey. By many this work is regarded as 
marking a new era in our language. 

The last and most voluminous production of this period 
is a rhymed history of England usually known as the 
Chronicle of Robert Mannyng, a monk of Brunne, in 
Lincolnshire. 

However interesting Caedmon, Bede, Alfred the 
Great, Geoffrey and the Rhyming Chroniclers may 
be to the philologist, they are comparatively unim- 
portant to the student of English literature, for theirs is 
a dead language, not the English that has existed since 
Chaucer gave us his "Canterbury Tales." Marsh says: 
"Beowulf, the songs of Caedmon, and even the relics 
of the great Alfred, were buried out o\ sight and 
forgotten long before any work, now recognized as 
distinctly English in spirit, had been conceived in the 



INTRODUCTION. 23 

imagination of its author. The earliest truly English 
writers borrowed neither imagery, nor thought, nor plan, 
seldom even form from older native models; hence, An- 
glo-Saxon literature, so far from being the mother, was 
not even the nurse of the infant genius which opened its 
eyes to the sun of England five centuries ago." With 
Chaucer, therefore, who shaped the heterogeneous mate- 
rials at hand into a symmetrical structure, we may cor- 
rectly date the beginning of English literature. 




CHAPTER I. 

EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD (1350-1558). 
The early part of this period is memorable in history on 
account of the military glories of Edward III. and his 
noble son, the heroic Black Prince. The gradual blend- 
ing of the Saxon and the Norman elements had estab- 
lished a national sentiment and thus secured the suprem- 
acy of England. In order to appreciate more fully the 
literary character of the period, the student must bear in 
mind some facts regarding the customs of the people. 
At this period of English history and for many years 
later, the home of a prosperous man consisted generally 
of a large wooden building (the hall), surrounded by sev- 
eral detached cabins (the bowers) situated in ample space, 
inclosed by an earthwork and a ditch, with a strong gate 
(the burh-gate) for entrance. The hall was the general 
resort of the numerous household. It was hung with 
cloth or embroidered tapestries, and had hooks for arms, 
armor, musical instruments, etc. The floor was of clay, 
or, in palaces, of tile mosaic. Its chief furniture was 
benches, which served as seats by day and for beds at 
night. A sack of straw and a straw pillow, with sheet, 
coverlet, and goatskin, laid on a bench or on the floor, 
furnished a sufficient couch for even a royal Saxon. A 
stool or chair, covered with a rug or cushion, marked the 
master's place. The table was a long board laid upon 
trestles, and put aside when not in use. A hole in the 
roof gave outlet to the clouds of smoke from the open fire; 
on the floor. The bowers furnished private sitting and 



EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 25 

bed rooms for the ladies of the house, the master, and dis- 
tinguished guests. Here the Anglo-Saxon dames carded, 
spun and wove, and wrought the gold embroideries that 
made their needlework famous throughout Europe. The 
straw bed lay on a "couch in a curtained recess, and the 
furniture was scanty, for in those times nothing which 
could not be easily hidden was safe from plunderers. The 
little windows (called eye-holes) were closed by a wooden 
lattice, thin horn, or linen, for glass windows were as yet 
scarce known. A rude candle stuck upon a spike was 
used at night. The women were fond of flowers and gar- 
dens. At the great feasts they passed the ale and mead, 
and distributed gifts — the spoils of victory — to the war- 
rior guests. The master was called the hlaf-ord (loaf- 
owner), and the mistress hlaf-dig (loaf-distributer) ; hence 
the modern words lord and lady. The domestics and re- 
tainers were called loaf-eaters. 

The Norman introduced new modes of thought and life. 
More cleanly and delicate in personal habits, more elabo- 
rate in tastes, more courtly and ceremonious in manner, 
fresh from a province where learning had just revived 
and which was noted for its artistic architecture, and com- 
ing to a land that for a century had been nearly barren 
of literature and whose buildings had little grace or 
beauty, the Norman added culture and refinement to the 
Anglo-Saxon strength and sturdiness. Daring and reso- 
lute in attack, steady in discipline, skillful in exacting sub- 
mission, fond of outside splendor, proud of military 
power, and appreciative of thought and learning, it is to 
him that England owes the builder, the knight, the school- 
man, the statesman. 



26 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Geoffrey Chaucer (1328=1400). 

"I take increasing delight in Chaucer. How exquisitely 
tender he is, yet how perfectly free from the least touch of 
sickly melancholy or morbid drooping." — S. T. Coleridge. 

"Observe the eminent healthiness, the well-balanced sta- 
bility of Chaucer's mind. He is no sickly naturalist; he does 
not turn with disgust from town life to 'babble o' green fields' ; 
he neither feels nor affects such a scorn or disapprobation of 
man and society as to be driven to take refuge in the untar- 
nished loveliness of nature, in order to find fit materials for 
poetic creations. Human society, no less than external na- 
ture, is in the eyes of Chaucer beautiful and venerable; it, 
too, comes from the hand of God; it, too, supplies fit themes 
for poetry." — Thomas Arnold. 

Geoffrey Chaucer, "the Father of English poetry," "the 
morning-star of song," was a man of mark; inventive 
though a disciple, original though a translator, and, by his 
genius, education and life, was enabled to know and de- 
pict a whole world. It is supposed that Chaucer was 
born in London, but of his parentage nothing is known. 
That he was educated at a university may be held as 
certain, but whether at Oxford or at Cambridge is not 
so clear. A passage in the "Court of Love" — 
"Philogenet I called am ferre and nere 
Of Cambridge clerk," 

seems to tell in favor of Cambridge. On the other hand, 
it is known that his most intimate friends and disciples, 
Gower, Strode and Occleve, were Oxford men ; and the 
earnest scholar who makes one of the group of Canter- 
bury pilgrims is a "clerk of Oxenfonl." Early in life 
Chaucer was page to the wife of Lionel, 1 )uke < if Clarence ; 
and later he bore arms in the campaign of Edward 111. 
against France in 1359. His marriage with Philippa 
Rouet is thought to have taken place in [360. This lady 
was a native of Hainault and maid of honor to Oueen 



m 




GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 



EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 29 

Philippa. His sister Catherine was the third wife of 
John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. Taine says: "He 
was employed more than once in open embassies or secret 
missions at Florence, Genoa, Milan, Flanders; commis- 
sioner in France for the marriage of the Prince of Wales ; 
high up and low down on the political ladder; disgraced, 
restored to place. This experience of business, travel, 
war, and the court, was not like a book-education. He 
was at the court of Edward III., the most splendid in 
Europe, amidst tourneys, grand receptions, magnificent 
displays; he took part in the pomps of France and Milan; 
conversed with Petrarch, perhaps with Boccaccio and 
Froissart; was actor in and spectator of the finest and 
most tragical of dramas. In these few words, what cere- 
monies and cavalcades are implied! what processions in 
armor, what caparisoned horses, bedizened ladies! what 
display of gallant and lordly manners ! what a varied and 
brilliant world, well suited to occupy the mind and eyes 
of a poet! Like Froissart, and better than he, Chaucer 
could depict the castles of the nobles, their conversations, 
their talk of love, and anything else that concerned them, 
and could please them by his portraiture." 

A portrait of Chaucer, attributed to his friend Occleve, 
and a beautiful miniature introduced into one of the most 
valuable manuscript copies of his works,would lead us to 
believe that the poet was of low stature and somewhat cor- 
pulent, his face small and fair, his eyes downcast and medi- 
tative. In the prologue to "The Rime of Sir Thopas," 
the host of the Tabard, himself represented as a "large 
man" and a ''fair burgess," calls upon Chaucer to con- 
tribute a story and rallies him on his corpulency, as well 
as on his studious and abstracted air: 



30 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

"What man art thou?" quod he; 

"Thou lokest as thou woldest fynde an hare, 

For ever on the ground I se the stare. 

Approach nere, and loke merrily. 

Now ware you, sires, and let this man have space. 

He in the wast is schape as well as I. 

He seemeth elvisch by his countenance. 

For unto no wight doth he daliaunce." 

Chaucer's imagination lacked intensity and passion; it 
was warm and pleasant but limited to practical every-day 
things. His satire was not harsh but rather playful, and 
his taste was exquisite. His intellect was practical, keen 
and logical; thus in depicting characters, his natural gift 
enabled him to do what had never been done before — he 
delineated living persons. 

His works are of two kinds, translations and tales of 
social life; the style alternating from grave to gay, moral 
to licentious, chivalrous to vulgar. He is quietly humor- 
ous rather than' witty, and his works abound with the 
light banter inseparable from a genial nature. Chaucer 
excels as a minute observer of manners and circumstances. 
In prose composition he is comparatively uninteresting, 
but as a poet, in point of time, he is our first great English 
classic. He became to others what none had been to 
him — a standard. He was greatly admired by Spenser 
and Milton, and was imitated by Dryden, Tope. Words- 
worth and Tennyson. In fact, all great pods since his 
time have drawn largely from the fountain ol Chaucer's 
inspiration. Like many other writers who gave their 
thoughts to the world without an ever-present sense of 
moral responsibility, Chaucer, in his last hours, bitterlf 
bewailed some too-well-remembered lines, which, when 
dying, he vainly wished to blot. "Wo is me' wo is me!" 
he exclaimed in that solemn hour, "thai I cannot recall 



EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 31 

those things which I have written, but, alas! they are 
now continued from man to man and I cannot do what I 
desire." 

Principal Works. — Chaucer's most important works 
are the ''Canterbury Tales," "Troylus and Cryseyde," the 
"Flower and the Leaf," the "House of Fame," and the 
"Legende of Goode Women." The following selection is 
from one of his minor poems, his "A, B, C," as it is called, 
or "Prayer to our Lady!" It displays the author's tender 
and unaffected devotion to the Mother of God. 

Comfort ys noon, but in you, Lady derei 

For loo my synne and my confusioun 
Which oughte not in thy presence for to appere, 

Han take on me a grevouse accioun 
Of verray ryght and disperacioun! 

And as by ryght they myghten wel sustene, 
That I were worthy my damnacioun, 

Nere mercye of you, blysful hevennes queene! 

Glorious mayde and moder! whiche that never 

Were better nor in erthe nor in see, 
But ful of swetnesse and of mercye ever, 

Help, that my fader be not wroth! 
Speke thou, for I ne dar nat him yse; 

So have I doom in erthe, alias the while! 
That certes, but that thow my socour be, 

To synke eterne he wol my goost exile. 

Queene of Comfort, yet whan I me bethynke, 

That I agilite have bothe hym and thee, 
And that my soule ys worthy for to synke, 

Alas! I, katyf, whider may I fie! 
Who shal unto thy Sone my mene be? 

Who, but thy selfe, that art of pitee welle? 
Thow hast more routhe on oure adversite 

Than in this world myght any tonge telle. 



32 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

By many "Troylus and Cryseyde" is ranked next to 
the "Canterbury Tales." The material was drawn from 
Boccaccio, and the story was extremely popular in the 
Middle Ages and even later. Shakspeare himself has 
dramatized it. In many passages Chaucer adheres closely 
to the text of Boccaccio, but in the development of ideal 
characters, and in a delicate appreciation of moral senti- 
ment, he was far superior to his Italian contemporary. 
The poem is written in the musical Italian stanza of seven 
lines. 

The "Flower and the Leaf" is an allegory probably 
written to celebrate the marriage of Philippa, daughter 
of John of Gaunt, with John, King of Portugal. The 
poem represents Chastity under the figure of a white 
queen and her retinue, the Knights are the Nine Worthies, 
and the cavaliers are the Knights of the Round Table, 
the Peers of Charlemagne, and the Knights of the Garter. 
The queen robed in green and her ladies are the fol- 
lowers of sloth and idleness. In general, the flower 
typifies vain pleasure; the leaf, virtue and industry; the 
former being a "thing fading with every blast," while the 
latter "abides with the root, notwithstanding the frosts 
and winter storms." The poem is written in the seven- 
lined stanza, and contains many curious and beautiful 
passages. 

The "House of Fame" by its extraordinary union of 
brilliant description with learning and humor, is sufficient 
of itself to establish Chaucer's reputation. Under the 
popular form of a dream, it gives a picture of the Temple 
of Glory, crowded with aspirants for immortal renown, 
and adorned with statues of great poets and historians. 
The description of this temple is the most interesting 
part of the poem. Its architectural details are carefully set 



Early English period. 33 

forth, and its beauties are charmingly described. In 
richness of fancy it far surpasses Pope's imitation, the 
"Temple of Fame." When the poet leaves the temple, he 
is, in his dream, borne away by an eagle to a house sixty 
miles in length, built of twigs and blown about in the 
wind. This is the House of Rumor, thronged with pil- 
grims, sailors, and other retailers of wonderful reports. 

The "Legende of Goode Women" was one of Chaucer's 
latest compositions. Its apologies for what had been 
written in his earlier years, and its mention of many of his 
previous works, clearly prove that it was produced after 
much of his busy life was spent. The avowed purpose of 
the poem is to make a retractation of his unfavorable de- 
scriptions of the character of women; and for this purpose 
he undertakes to give a poetical sketch of nineteen ladies, 
whose lives of chastity and worthiness redeem the sex 
from his former reproaches. The work was left incom- 
plete. The nine sketches given are closely translated from 
Ovid, but the coloring of the stories is Catholic and 
mediaeval. The Prologue is by far the finest portion of 
the poem; here, and everywhere in Chaucer, the rhythm 
is perfect when the verses are properly read. 

The Canterbury Tales. 

This, Chaucer's greatest and most original work, was 
given to the world in its present unfinished state in 139-1. 
In this poem, Chaucer has poured forth in abundance 
his stores of wit, humor, pathos, and knowledge of 
humanity; by this he has gained a place in the first rank 
of poets and character-painters. Each tale is admirably 
adapted to the teller as portrayed in the Prologue, and all 
the tales are naturally bound together by little incidents 
such as are likely to occur among a number of travelers 



34 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

on horseback, journeying to the same place. The model 
of the poem was Boccaccio's "Decameron," but in con- 
nection of incidents it far surpasses the model. 

Plan. — The plan of the " Canterbury Tales " is simple 
but masterly. It makes the representatives of various 
classes of society tell a series of tales extremely beautiful 
when judged on their independent merits, but deriving 
a higher interest from the way in which they harmonize 
with their narrators. Chaucer tells us that being about to 
make a pilgrimage from London to the shrine of St. 
Thomas a Becket, in Canterbury Cathedral, he passes the 
night previous to his departure at the Tabard Inn in 
Southwark. While at the "hostelrie" he meets many 
other pilgrims bound to the same destination. At supper, 
Harry Bailey, the host of the Tabard, a jolly and sociable 
fellow, proposes to accompany the party as a guide and 
suggests that they may enliven the tedium of their journey 
by relating stories as they ride. He is accepted as a 
judge or moderator, by whose decisions even* one is to 
abide. The poem, had it been completed, would have 
comprised the adventures on the journey, the arrival at 
Canterbury, a description in all probability of the splendid 
religious ceremonies, and the visits to the numerous 
shrines and relics in the cathedral, the return to London, 
the farewell supper at the Tabard, and the separation of 
the pleasant company. The jovial guide proposes that 
each pilgrim shall relate two tales on the journey out. 
and two more on the way home; and that, on the return 
of the party to London, he who shall be adjudged to have 
related the best and most amusing story shall sup at the 
common cost. Such is the general plan of the poem, and 
its development is natural. Some of the stories suggest 
others, just as would happen in real life, under similar 



EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 35 

circumstances. In the inimitable description of manners, 
persons, dress, and all the equipage, with which the poet 
has introduced them, we behold a vast and minute por- 
trait gallery of the social England of the fourteenth cen- 
tury. 

The Prologue to the tales describes the character of the 
pilgrims with unsurpassed simplicity and grace, but many 
satirical passages indicate that in hostility to the monks 
and the ecclesiastical hierarchy, Chaucer sympathized 
with Wycliffe. There are in all thirty-one pilgrims; if 
each of these had related the tales called for by the plan, 
the work would have contained one hundred and twenty- 
eight stories, exclusive of the subordinate incidents and 
conversations; but the pilgrims do not arrive at their 
destination. There are many evidences of confusion 
in the tales which Chaucer has given us, leading to the 
conclusion that the materials were not only incomplete, 
but also were left in a confused state by the poet. 

The tales themselves may be roughly divided into the 
two great classes of pathetic and humorous. The finest 
of the pathetic stories are, the Knight's Tale, the longest 
of them all, in which is related the adventure of Palamon 
and Arcite; the Squire's Tale, a wild half-Oriental tale 
of love, chivalry and enchantment; the Man of Lawe's 
Tale, the beautiful and pathetic story of Constance; the 
Tale of the Prioress, the charming legend of "litel Hew 
of Lincoln," who was murdered for singing his hymn to 
the Blessed Virgin; and, above all, the Clerk of Oxford's 
Tale, perhaps the most beautiful pathetic narration in 
the whole range of literature. This, the story of Griselda, 
is the tenderest of all the serious narratives, as the 
Knight's Tale is the masterpiece among the descriptions 
of love and chivalric magnificence. 



36 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Pronunciation. — The difficulty of reading and under- 
standing Chaucer has been much exaggerated. Tyr- 
whitt's rules for pronunciation are probably the best, be- 
cause as nearly in conformity with the customs of 
Chaucer's time as can be determined. 

RULES. 

1. The plural es of nouns, as well as the genitive form, is a 
separate syllable. 

2. The termination ed of the past tense, and past parti- 
ciple, is a separate syllable. 

3. The e final, is pronounced, except when followed by a 
word beginning with a vowel or silent h. 

4. In French words, the last syllable or the last but one 
is accented. 

5. The last syllable of the present participle is accented. 
Pronounce 

ai like ah-ee. 

au, aw like ah-oo. 

ie, ee like e in there. 

ou like oo. 

c and s never like sh. 

tion, sion, cion always like si-on. 
Many attempts have been made to reduce Chaucer's 
writings to modern English', in order to introduce him 
to popular favor; but, to be thoroughly enjoyed. Ids writ- 
ings must be read in their original diction. 

PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES. 

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote 
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, 
And bathed every veyne in swicbe licour, 
Of which vertu engendred is the flour; 



Linel: Aprille, April ; soote, sweet. 2, droghte, drought. 8, swich 
licour, such liquor. 7, yonge sonne, young sun. 8, yronne, run ; the pro- 
fix y is the sign of the past teuse and past participle. 11, priketh hem, ex- 
cites them; hir COrages, their spirits or hearts. 



EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 37 

5 Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth 

Enspired hath in every holt and heeth 

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 

Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne, 

And smale foweles maken melodye 
10 That slepen all the nyght with open eye, — 

So priketh hem nature in hir corages: — 

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrymages, 

And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes, 

To ferae halwes kouthe in sundry londes; 
15 And specially, from every shires ende 

Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, 

The hooly blisful martir for to seke, 

That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. 
Bifel that, in that seson on a day, 
20 In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 

Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage 

To Caunterbury with devout corage, 

At nyght were come into that hostelrye 

Wei nyne and twenty in a compaignye 
25 Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle 

In felawshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle, 

That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde. 

The chambres and the stables weren wyde, 

And wel we weren esed atte beste. 
30 And shortly whan the scnne was to reste, 

So hadde I spoken with hem everich on, 

That I was of his felawshipe anon, 

And made forward erly for to ryse, 

To take oure wey ther as I yow devyse. 
35 But nathelees, whil I have tyme and space, 

Er that I further in this tale pace 

Me thynketh it accordaunt to resoun 

To tell yow al the condicioun 

Of ech of hem, so as it semed me, 

Line 13 : palmeres, palmers, pilgrims. 14, feme halwes, ancient holies 
or saints ; kouthe, known. 18, holpen, helped. 20, Tabard, the name of an 
inn which had the sign of a sleeveless jacket. 23, hostelrye, inn. 24, wel, 
full. 25, yfalle, fallen. 31, every chon, every one. 34, devyse, describe. 
35, natheless, nevertheless. 36, pace, progress. 37, resoun, reason. 



38 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

40 And which they weren, and of what degree; 

And eek in what array that they were inne: 

And at a knight, than, wol I first bigynne. 
A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man 

That fro the tyme that he firste bigan 
45 To ryden out, he loved chivalrie, 

Trouthe and honour, fredom and curtisie. 

Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre, 

And therto hadde he riden, no man ferre, 

As wel in Christendom as in hethenesse, 
50 And evere honoured for his worthynesse. 

At Alisaundre he was whan it was wonne, 

Ful ofte tyme he hadde the bord bigonne 

Aboven alle nacions in Pruce. 

In Lettow hadde he reysed and in Ruse, — 
55 No cristen man so ofte of his degree. 

In Gernade atte seege eek hadde he be 

Of Algezir, and riden in Belmarye. 

At Lyeys was he, and at Satalye, 

Whan they were wonne; and in the Grete See 
60 At many a noble armee hadde he be. 

At mortal batailles hadde he been fiftene, 

And foughten for our feith at Tramyssene 

In lystes thries, and ay slayn his foo. 

This ilke worthy knight hadde been also 
65 Somtyme with the lord of Palatye 

Agayn another hethen in Turkye; 

And evermoore he hadde a sovereyn prys, 

And though that he were worthy, he was wys. 

And of his port as meeke as is a mayde. 
70 He nevere yet no vilnye ne sayde 

In all his lyf unto no maner wight, 

He was a verray parfit, gentil knight. 

But for to tellen yow of his array, 

His hors was goode, but he was not gay. 

Line42: bigynne, begin. 45, chivalrie, knighthood. 47, werre, wars. 
■is, ferre, farther. 49, hethenesse, heathendom. 52, bord bigonne, taken 
the highest place. 53, Pruce, Prussia. 54, Ruce, Russia ; Lettow, Lithuania; 
reysed, engaged in war. 63, listes thries, the lists three times. tH. ilke, 
same. 67, sovereyn prys, kingly prize renown, 



EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 39 

75 Of fustian he wered a gypoun, 

All besmotred with his habergeoun. 

For he was late ycome from his viage 

And wente for to doon his pilgrymage. 
With hym ther was his sone, a young squier, 
80 A lovyere, and a lusty bacheler, 

With lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse, 

Of twenty yere of age he was, I gesse. 

Of his stature he was of evene lengthe, 

And wonderly delyvere, and of greet strengthe. 
85 And he hadde been sometyme in chyvachie, 

In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Pycardie, 

And born hym weel, as of so litel space, 

In hope to stonden in his lady grace. 

Embrouded was he as if it were a meede 
90 Al ful of fresshe floures, whyte and reede. 

Syngynge he was, or floytynge, al the day; 

He was as fressh as is the monthe of May. 

Short was his gowne, with sieves longe and wyde, 

Wei koude he sitte on hors, and faire ryde; 
95 He koude songes make and wel endite, 

Juste and eek daunce, and weel purtreye and write. 

So hoote he lovede, that by nyghtertale 

He slepte namoore than dooth a nyghtyngale. 

Curteis he was, lowely, and servysable, 
100 And carf biforn his fader at the table. 

A Yeman hadde he, and servantz namoo. 

At that tyme for hym luste, ryde soo; 

And he was clad in cote and hood of grene, 

A sheef of pecock arwes bright and kene 

Line 70, Vilenye, villainy. 71, maner Wight, manner of person. 72, 
parfit, perfect. 75, gypoun, short cloak. 76, bismotred, soiled ; haber- 
geoun, small coat of mail. 78, doon, complete. 79, squier, a knight's 
attendant. 81, crulle, curled. 83, evene lengthe, moderate height. 84, 
delyvere, active. 85, chyvachie, raids. 89, embrouded, embroidered; 
meede, meadow. 91, floytinge, playing the flute. 96, juste, fight at tour- 
naments; purtreye, draw. 97, nyghtertale, night time. 

Line 99, curteis, courteous. 101, Yeman, yeoman, a servant. 104, pecock 
arwes, arrows trimmed with peacock feathers. 106, takel, tackle, arrows. 
109, not-heed, nut head. 110, woode-craft, hunting, ill, bracer, wrist 
shield. 114, herneysed, mounted, fastened. 116, baw dryk, belt passing 
over the shoulder. 117, SOOthly, truly. 118, clerk, student. 122, holwe, 
hollow ; sobrely, sad. 123, overeste courtepy, short overcloak. 126, hym 
was levere have, he would rather have. 



40 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

105 Under his belt he bar ful thriftily. 
Wei koude he dress his takel yemanly; 
His arwes drouped noght with fetheres lowe, 
And in his hand he bar a myghty bowe. 
A not-heed hadde he, with a brcun visage; 

110 Of woode-craft wel koude he al the usage. 
Upon his arm he bar a gay bracer, 
And by his syde a swerd and a bokeler, 
And on that oother syde a gay daggere, 
Herneysed wel, and sharpe as point of spere; 

115 A Christophere on his brest of silver sheene; 
An horn he bar, the bawdryk was of grene. 
A forster was he, soothly as I gesse. 
********** 

A Clerk ther was of Oxenford, also, 
That unto logyk hadde longe ygo. 

120 As leene was his hors as is a rake, 

And he was nat right fat, I undertake; 
But lokede holwe, and therto sobrely. 
Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy, 
For he hackle getcn hym yet no benefice, 

125 Ne was so worldly for to have office. 

For hym was levere have at his beddes heed 
A twenty bookes, clad in blak or reed, 
Of Aristotle, and his philosophic, 
Than robes riche, or fithele, or sautrie: 

130 But al be that he was a philosophre, 
Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre; 
But al that he myghte of his freendes hente, 
On bookes and on lernygne he it spente, 
And bisily gan for the soules preye 

135 Of hem that gaf hym wherwith to scoleye, 

Of studie took he moost cure and moost heede, 
Noght o word spak he moore than was neede, 
And that was sayd in forme and reverence, 
And short and quyk, and ful of by sentence, 

140 Sownynge in moral vertu was his specie'. 
And gladly wolde he lerne. and gladly teche. 

A Sergeant of the Lawe, war and wys, 
That often hadde been at the Parvys 
Ther was also, ful riche of excellence. 



EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 41 

145 Discreet he was, and of greet reverence, 

He semed swich, hise wordes weren so wise. 

Justice he was full often in Assise, 

By patente, and by pleyn, conimissioun; 

For his science, and for his heigh renown, 
150 Of fees and robes hadde he many oon. 

So greet a purchasour was nowher noon. 

Al was fee syniple to hym in effect, 

His purchasyng myghte nat been infect. 

Nowher so bisy a man as he ther was, 
155 And yet he semed bisier than he was. 

In termes hadde he caas and doomes alle 

That from the tyme of Kyng William were falle. 

Therto he koude endite, and make a thyng, 

Ther koude no wight pynche at his writyng 
160 And every statut koude he pleyn by rote. 

He rood but lioomly in a medlee cote, 

Girt with a ceint of silk, with barres smale; 

Of his array telle I no longer tale. 
A Frankelein was in this compaignye; 
165 Whit was his heed as is a dayeseye. 

Of his complexioun he was sangwyn, 

Wei loved he by the morwe a sope in wyn. 

To lyven in delite was al his wone, 

For he was Epicurus owene sone, 
170 That heeld opinioun that pleyn delit, 

Was verraily felicitee parfit. 

An householdere, and that a greet was he; 

Seint Julian was he in his contree. 

His breed, his ale was alway after oon; 
175 A bettre envyned man was never noon. 

Withoute bake mete was nevere his hous, 

Of fissh and flessh, and that so plenteuous. 

It snewed in his hous of mete and drynke, 

Of alle deyntees that men koude thynke. 

Lino 128, fithele, fiddle; sautrie, psaltery. 132, heute, get. 135, scol- 
eye, attend school. 139, sentence, meaning. 140, sownynge, sounding. 
142, war and wys, cautious and wise. 143, Parvys, a church porch where 
lawyers met for consultation. 151, purchasour, prosecutor. 153, infect, 
tainted by bribery. 154, nas, was not. 156, caas, cases ; doomes, decisions. 
158, therto, besides; endite, write. 159, pynche, find fault. 160, pleyn, 
make plain ; rote, memory, 



42 LESSONS IN LITERATURE 

180 After the sondry sesons of the yeer, 

So chaunged he his mete and his soper. 

Ful many a fat partrich hadde he in muwe 

And many a breme and many a luce in stuwe. 

Wo was his cook but if his sauce were 
185 Poynaunt and sharpe, and redy al his geere. 

His table dormant in his halle alway 

Stood redy covered al the longe day. 

At sessiouns ther was he lord and sire, 

Ful ofte tyme he was knyght of the shire. 
190 An anlaas and a gipser al of silk 

Heng at his girdel, white as morne milk. 

A shirreve hadde he been, and a contour; 

Was nowher such a worthy vavasour. 

A good man ther was of religioun, 
195 That was a poure Persoun of a toun; 

But riche he was of hooly thoght and werk. 

He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 

That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche; 

Hise parisshens devoutly wolde he teche. 
200 Benygne he was, and wonder diligent, 

And in adversitee ful pacient; 

And swich he was ypreved ofte sithes, 

Ful looth were hym to cursen for hise tithes, 

But rather wolde he geven, out of doute, 
205 Unto his poure parisshens aboute, 

Of his offryng and eek of his substaunce. 

He koude in litel thing have suffisaunce. 

Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer asonder 

But he ne lafte nat for reyn ne thonder, 
210 In siknesse nor in meschief to visite 

The ferreste in his parisshe, muche and lite, 

Upon his feet, and in his hand a staff: 

This noble ensample to his sheepe he gaf, 

That first he wroghte, and afterward he taughte. 

Line 161, medlee cote, coat of mixed colors. 182, ceint. girdle, hU, 
Frankeleyn, land owner. 165, dayeseye, daisy. 167, morwe, morning. 
168. wone, desire. 174, oon, our o'clock. 178, snewed, Bnowed. 182, muwe, 
coop. 183, stuwe, fish pond. 184, but if, if not, 185, geere, apparel. 186, 
dormant, always set. 190, anlaas, knife; gipser, pouch. 192, shirreve, 
sheriff ; contour, auditor. 193, vavasour, landholder of tho middle class. 



EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 43 

215 Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte, 

And this figure he added eek therto, 

That if gold ruste, what shal iren doo? 

And though he hooly were, and vertuous, 

He was to synful man not despitous, 
220 Ne of his speehe daungerous ne digne, 

But in his techyng discreet and benygne. 

To drawen folk to hevene by fairenesse 

By good ensample, was his bisynesse; 

But it were any persone obstinat, 
225 What so he were, of heigh or lough estat, 

Hym wolde he snybben sharply for the nonys, 

A bettre preest, I trowe, that nowher noon ys. 

He waytede after no pompe and reverence, 

Ne maked him a spiced conscience; 
230 But Cristes love, and his apostles twelve, 

He taughte, but first he folwed it hymselve. 
The Reve was a slendre colerike man, 

His berd was shave as neighe as ever he can; 

His here was by his eres ful round y shorn; 
235 His top was docked lyk a preest biforn. 

Ful longe were his legges, and ful lene, 

Ylyk a staf, ther was no calf ysene. 

Wei koude he kepe a gerner and a bynne, 

There was noon auditour koude of him wynne. 
240 Wei wiste he, by the droghte and by the reyn, 

The yeldynge of his seed, and of his greyn. 

His lordes sheepe, his neet, his dayerye, 

His swyn, his hors, his stoor, and his pultrye, 

Were hoolly in this reves governyng, 
245 And by his covenant gaf the rekenyng, 

Syn that his lord was twenty yeer of age, 

Ther koude no man brynge hym in arrerage. 

Ther was baillif, re herde nor oother hyne, 

That he ne knew his sleighte and his covyne; 

Line 195 : Persoun, parson. 200, benygne, benign ; wonder, wonderfully. 
207, SUffisaunce, a sufficiency. 209, reyn, rain; thonder, thunder. 211, 
ferreste, farthest. 219, despitous, cruel. 220, daungerous, dangerous. 
223, ensample, example. 224, but it, but if. 226, snybben, reprove ; nonys, 
nonce. 



44 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

250 They were adrad of hym as of the deeth. 
His wonyng was ful faire upon an heeth, 
With grene trees yshadwed was his place. 
He koude bettre than his lord purchase. 
This Reve sat upon a ful good stot, 

255 That was all pomely grey, and highte Scot. 
A long surcote of pers upon he hade, 
And by his syde he bar a rusty blade. 
Of Northfolk was this Reve of which I telle, 
Biside a toun men clepen Baldeswelle. 

260 Tukked he was as is a frere aboute. 

And evere he rood the hyndreste of oure route. 
Now have I toold you shortly in a clause 
Th' estat, th' araie, the nombre, and eke the cause 
Why that assembled was this compaignye 

265 In Southwerk, at this gentil hostelrye, 
That highte the Tabard, faste by the Belle. 
But now is tyme to yow for to telle 
How that we baren us that ilke nyght, 
Whan we were in that hostelrie alyght, 

270 And after wol I telle of our viage; 

And al the remenant of oure pilgrymage. 
******* 

Gret cheere made oure Hoost us everichon, 
And to the soper set he us anon, 
And served us with vitaille at the beste. 
275 Strong was the wyn, and wel to drynke us leste. 
A semely man oure hooste was with alle 
For to nan been a marchal in an halle. 
Eek therto he was right a mery man, 
And after soper pleyen he bigan, 



Line 228: waytede after, looked for. 22f«, spiced, scrupulous. 2:i2, Reve, 
-toward. 238, gerner, granary; bynne, bin. 244, boolly, wholly. 254, won- 
yng, dwelling. 2.">4, stot, stallion. 255, pomely, dappled; highte, called. 
260, tukked, clothed. 2G1, hyndreste, last. 

Line263: estat, estate ; th'araie, the array. 270, viage, journey. 273, 
SOper, supper. 27;"), US leste, it pleased us. 27t>, semely, comely. 277. ban, 
have. 281, rekenynges, reckonings. 285, quite, requite; meede, merit. 
287, talen, tell tales. 289, doumb, dumb. 



EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 45 

280 And spake of myrthe amonges othere thynges, 

Whan that we hadde maad oure rekenynges; 

And seyde thus: "Now, lordynges, trewely 

Ye ben to me right welcome hertely. 

Ye goon to Caimterbury; God yow speede, 
285 The blisful martir quit yow youre mede! 

And wel I wot, as ye gon by the weye, 

Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleye; 

For trewely comfort ne myrthe is non 

To riden by the weye doumb as the ston; 
290 And therfore wol I maken yow disport 

As I seyde erst, and don yow some comfort, 

And if yow liketh alle by on assent 

Now for to stonden at my jugement, 

And for to werken as I shal yow seye, 
295 .To morwe, whan ye riden by the weye, 

Now by my fader soule that is deed, 

But ye be mery, I wol geve yow myn heed. 

Hold up youre hond withouten moore speche." 

Oure conseil was nat longe for to seche; 
300 Us thoughte it was noght worth to make it wys 

And granted hym withouten moore avys, 

And bad him seye his voirdit, as hym leste. 

"Lordynges," (quod he) "now herketh for the beste, 

But take it noght, I prey yow, in desdeyn; 
305 This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn, 

That ech of yow, to shorte with youre weye, 

In this viage, shal telle tales tweye, 

To Caunterbury-ward, I mene it so, 

And hom-ward he shall tellen othere two, 
310 Of aventures that whilom han befalle. 

And which of yow that bereth hym best of alle, 

That is to seyn, that telleth in this caas 

Tales of best sentence and moost solaas, 

Shal have a soper at oure aller cqst 



Line 297 : but ye be, if ye be not. 300, to make it wys, to deliberate. 
301, avys, advice. 307, tweye, two. 314, oure aller cost, at the cost of 
all. 320, withseye, gainsay. 326, preyden, prayed. 



46 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

315 Heere in this place, sittynge by this post, 

Whan that we come agayn fro Caunterbiiry. 

And, for to make yow the moore mery, 

I'wo'l myself e gladly with yow ryde, 

Right at myn owene cost, and be youre gyde. 
320 And who so wole my jugement withseye, 

Shal paye al that we spenden by the weye. 

And if ye vouchesauf that it be so, 

Telle me anon, withouten wordes mo, 

And I wol erly shape me therfore." 
325 This thyng was graunted, and oure othes swore 

With ful glad herte, and preyden hym also 

That he wolde vouchesauf for to do so, 

And that he wolde been oure governeur, 

And of oure tales juge and reportour, 
330 And sette a soper at a certeyn pris; 

And we wolde reuled been at his devys, 

In heigh and lough; and thus by oon assent 

We been accorded to his jugement. 

And thereupon the wyn was fet anon; 
335 We dronken, and to reste wente ech on, 

Withouten any lenger taryynge. 

Foreign Contemporaries — The greatest foreign con- 
temporaries of Chaucer were the Italian poets, Dante 
(1265-1321), Boccaccio (1313-1375), and Petrarch (1304- 

1374). 

Although Dante died in 1321, his influence was strongly 
felt throughout the century. In his sublime allegory — 
La Divina Commedia — he has caught up and crystallized 
the spirit of the Middle Ages. Their philosophy, their 
politics, their religion, their aspirations are immortalized 
in its amber pages. He is the poet of Catholicity. The 
elevation of liis genius places him above all parties. A 
fierce, unyielding Ghibelline, lie reproves both Guelf and 



Line 330: certyn pris, certain price. :i:'.ii. heigh and lough, in every 
respect. 334, fet, fetched, brought. 



EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 47 

Ghibelline. The three divisions of his great work, the 
Inferno, Purgatory, and Paradise, represent the three-fold 
state of man; thirty-three cantos representing the years 
of our Savior's life on earth, are devoted to each division. 
The poet first explores the seven regions of Hell (state 
of sin), accompanied by Virgil (the type of human reason), 
and then with the same guide traverses the seven circles 
of Purgatory (state of grace) and reaches Paradise (the 
state of blessedness), where he meets Beatrice (the grace* 
of God), who guides him through the nine spheres to 
the presence of God. Every part contains symbolical 
meaning, even the rhyme which is in honor of the Trinity. 

The "Decameron" and "Teseide" of Boccaccio are the 
only works whose influence is clearly marked in the writ- 
ings of Chaucer. The "Decameron" consists of a hun- 
dred tales divided into decades, each decade occupying 
one day in its narration. The tales are told by a com- 
pany of young persons of rank, who retired to a retreat on 
the banks of the Arno, in order to escape the infection 
of a terrible plague that devastated Florence in 1348. 

The sonnets of Petrarch are delicately beautiful. This 
poet devoted his time and means to the restoration of 
classical study, by collecting and copying ancient manu- 
scripts. To the Italian language he gave harmony and 
stability, so that even now scarcely an obsolete word can 
be found in his writings ; to Italian literature he furnished 
models which have always been considered the finest of 
their kind. 

English Contemporaries. — Sir John Mandeville (1300- 
1372); John Gower (1325-1408); William Caxton (1412- 
1491); Blessed Thomas More (1480-1535); Roger Asch- 
am (15 1 5-1 568). 



48 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Sir John Mandeville, the great traveler, was the 
author of the first English book of prose. He is said to 
have spent thirty-four years in a course of travels, and 
after his return to his native land in 1356, he published 
his. "Voyages and Travels" in Latin, then "put this boke 
out of Latyn into Frensche, and translated it again out 
of Frensche into EnglyscKe, that every man of my Xa- 
cioun may undirstonde it." The work possesses no 
national tone or coloring, and little, if any, purely literary 
interest; but to the antiquarian it is interesting and valu- 
able, chiefly as giving the earliest example, on a large 
scale, of English prose. Like many books of travel writ- 
ten since Mandeville's time, it contains a little valuable 
information and a great deal of useless rubbish. The most 
remarkable passage in the book is the argument, drawn 
from the author's own observations, to prove that the 
earth is round. As this was written one hundred and 
fifty years before Columbus made a practical test of the 
question, it is worth remembering. The following is the 
passage: 

"In that land, and in many others beyond that, no man 
may see the star transmontane, that is called the star of the 
sea, that is immovable, and that is toward the north, that we 
call the lode-star. But men see another star, the contrary to 
it, that is toward the south, that is called antarctic. And 
right as the sailors take their advice here, and govern them- 
selves by the lode-star, right so do sailors beyond those parts, 
by the star of the south, the which star appeareth not to us. 
And this star, that is toward the north, that we call the lode- 
star, does not appear to them. For which cause, men may 
well perceive that the land and the sea are of round shape 
and form. For the part of the firmament sheweth in one 
country that sheweth not in another country. And men may 
well prove by experience and subtle compassment of wit that, 
if a man could find passages for ships that would go to search 
the world, men might go by ships all about the world, and 



EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 49 

above and beneath. The which thing I prove thus, after that 
I have said. For I have been towards the parts of Brabant, 
and beheld by the astrolabe that the star that is called the 
transmontane is fifty-three degrees high. And farther in Ger- 
many and Bohemia it hath fifty-eight degrees. And still far- 
ther north it is sixty-two degrees of height and certain min- 
utes. For I myself have measured it by the astrolabe. Now 
shall ye know that against the transmontane is the other star 
that is called antarctic, as I have said before. And the two 
stars never move. And by them turneth all the firmament, 
right as doth a wheel that turneth by its axle-tree; so that 
those stars bear the firmament. After this, I have gone to 
the meridional parts, that is toward the south, and I have 
found that in Lybia men see first the star antarctic. And the 
farther I have gone into those countries, the higher I have 
found that star to be. And if I had had company and ship- 
ping, to go farther beyond, I certainly believe that we should 
have seen all the roundness of the firmament. For, as I have 
told you before, the half of the firmament is between those 
stars the which half I have seen. And of the other half, I 
have seen toward the north, under the transmontane, sixty-two 
degrees and ten minutes; and toward the meridional part, I 
have seen under the antarctic thirty- three degrees and sixteen 
minutes; and then, the half of the firmament in all holdeth 
but one hundred and eighty degrees. And, of those one hun- 
dred and eighty s I have seen sixty-two on that one part, and 
thirty-three on that other part; that is ninety-five degrees 
and nigh the half of one degree; and so there faileth not but 
that I have seen all the firmament, save eighty-four degrees 
and the half of a degree; and that is not the fourth part of 
the firmament. By the which I say to you certainly, that man 
may environ all the earth of all the world, as well under as 
above, and turn again to his country, that has company, and 
shipping, and conduct; and always shall he find men, lands 
and isles as well as in this country. For ye know well that 
they that are toward the antarctic, they are straight, feet 
against feet of them that dwell under the transmontane; as 
well as we and they that dwell under us are feet against feet. 
For all the parts of sea and of land have their opposites, habit- 
able or passable." 



50 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

John Gower. — Closely linked with the name of Chau- 
cer is that of Gower. John Gower was a man of wealth, 
and passed his life quietly in literary work. He was edu- 
cated at Merton College, Oxford, and his learning 
was extensive though somewhat pedantic in its display. 
His poetic talent was but indifferent; he lacked the 
warmth of imagination necessary for the poetic subjects 
of his time, and he was on all occasions so serious and 
didactic, so grave and sententious, that Chaucer called him 
the "Morall Gower." 

His principal work consists of three parts: "Speculum 
Meditantes," a French poem which has not been 
seen in modern times; "Vox Clamantis," a Latin poem 
describing the insurrection of the Commons under Rich- 
ard II.; "Confessio Amantis," an English poem of 30,000 
lines. The "Confessio" was written at the request of 
Richard II., when Gower was an old man. It treats of 
the morals and metaphysics of love, but the "edification 
or entertainment to be got out of it is not very con- 
siderable." From the selection given below, Shakespeare 
obtained materials for the story of the two caskets in the 
"Merchant of Venice." 

THE TWO PASTIES. 

Somdele to this matere like 
I finde a tale, how Fredericke, 
Of Rome that time emperour, 
Herde, as he went, a great clamour 
5 Of two beggars upon the way, 
That one of hem began to say: 
"Ha, lord, wel may the man be riche 
Whom that a king list for to riche." 
That other saide: "No thinge so; 
10 But he is riche and wel bego, 



EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 51 

To whom that God wol sende wele." 

And thus they maden wordes fele, 

Whereof this lord hath hede ^onne, 

And hid him bothe for to come 
15 To the paleis, where he shall ete, 

And bad ordeigne for her mete 

Two pastees, which he let do make, 

A capon in that one was bake, 

And in that other, for to winne, 
20 Of floreins all that may withinne, 

He let do put a great richesse 

And even aliche, as men may gesse, 

Outward they were bothe two. 

This beggar was commanded tho, 
25 He that which held him to the king, 

That he first chese upon this thing. 

He sigh hem, but he felt hem nought, 

So that, upon his owne thought, 

He chese the capon, and forsoke, 
30 That other which his felaw toke. 

But whan he wist how that it ferde, 

He said aloud that men it herde: 

"Now have I certainly conceived 

How he may lightly be deceived, 
35 That tristeth unto mannes helpe. 

But wel is him that God wil helpe, 

For he stant on the siker side, 

Which elles shulde go beside. 

I se my felaw wel recouer, 
40 And I mot dwelle still pouer." 

Thus spake the beggar his entent, 

And pouer he came, and pouer he went, 

Of that he hath richesse sought, 

His infortune it wolde nought. 

To William Caxton (1412=1492.)— England is indebted for 
her early participation in the benefits arising from the art 
of printing. This great invention of modern times was 
made in 1438 by John Gutenberg of Mainz. Caxton 



52 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

spent twenty-three years in Holland and Flanders and 
while there became master of the art of printing. His 
press was set up at Westminster, and its first work, ''The 
Game and Playe of the Chesse," appeared in 1477. ^ n 
1877 this event was commemorated by the Caxton cele- 
bration, and no fewer than one hundred and ninety books 
printed by Caxton were exhibited. A much larger num- 
ber might have been collected had not the English Par- 
liament of 1550 ordered the destruction of all Catholic 
books. The majority of his publications were in English, 
consisting partly of translations and partly of original 
works. It is said that on the day of his death he com- 
pleted the translation of the "Yitae Patrum" or ''Lives 
of the Ancient Fathers of the Desert." 

Sir Thomas More was born in London in 1480, 
and even in his youth displayed remarkable intellectual 
ability. When at Christmas time a Latin play was acted, 
young Thomas More could step in at will among the 
players and extemporize a comic part. He was educated 
at Oxford, and entered Parliament at the age of twenty- 
one. Early in the reign of Henry \ III. he rose to high 
position in the practice of the law, and at the command 
of the king became a member of the court, where he rose 
from one dignity to another, becoming at last Lord High 
Chancellor. 

His fame as a writer rests upon two works. The one 
most remarkable for literary style is his "Life of Ed- 
ward V.," which is according to Hallam "the first example 
of good English, pure and perspicuous, without vulgar- 
isms or pedantry." But his best known work is the 
"Utopia," written in Latin and translated by Burnet. In 
this work More presents views, on the subjects of morals 



EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 53 

arfd government especially, which at that time must have 
been new indeed. 

He describes Utopia as an island of crescent shape, 
two hundred miles wide in the broadest part. On account 
of its shape, one side of the island forms a magnificent 
harbor, but this harbor is so difficult of access by reason 
of many rocks just beneath the surface of the water, that 
its entrance is rendered possible only through the skill 
of the Utopian pilots. 

"There be in the island fifty-four large and fair cities, or 
shire towns, agreeing all together in one tongue, in like man- 
ners, institutions, and laws. Of these cities, they that he 
nighest together be twenty-four miles asunder. The houses 
are curiously builded after a gorgeous and gallant sort, with - 
three stories, one over another. The outsides of the walls 
be made either of hard flint or plaster, or else of brick, and 
the inner sides be well strengthened with timber work. They 
keep the wind out of their windows with glass, for it is there 
much used." 

As to manners and customs, the people have few horses, 
and these are trained exclusively for warlike purposes. 
Their plowing and drawing are done only by oxen. They 
plant grain for food only, and drink only wine or clear 
water. Hence, "there be neither wine taverns, nor ale- 
houses, nor stewes, nor any occasion of vice or wicked- 
ness, no lurking corners, no places of wicked councils 
or unlawful assemblies." "Every tenth year they change 
their houses by lot," so that the idea of individual owner- 
ship may not arise. Every man and woman must learn 
some handicraft, and all are required to work from six 
to nine hours a day. 

In government, Utopia is a community. The legisla- 
tive department consists of chosen representatives from 
each city. 



54 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

"There come yearly to Amaurote out of every city three 
old men, wise and well experienced, there to entreat and de- 
bate of the common matters of the land. For this city 
(because it standeth just in the middle of the island, and is 
therefore most meet for the ambassadors of all parts of the 
realm) is taken for the chief and head city." 

They have few laws, and punishments are regulated by 
the gravity of the offense. Everything that is used is 
held in common, being deposited in store-houses. 

"From hence the father of every family, or every house- 
holder, fetcheth whatsoever he and his have need of, and car- 
ryeth it away with him without money, without exchange, 
without any gauge, pawn or pledge." 

The music of the Utopians, although mainly of a reli- 
gious character, is a realization of the dreams of the 
musicians of to-day. 

"For all their music, both that they play upon instruments 
and that they sing with man's voice, doth so resemble and 
express natural affections, the sound and tune is so applied 
and made agreeable to. the thing that, whether it be a prayer, 
or else a ditty cf gladness, of patience, of trouble, of mourn- 
ing or of anger, the fashion of the melody doth so represent 
the meaning of the thing that it doth wonderfully move, stir, 
pierce and inflame the hearers' minds." 

More's other works are not numerous; they are mainly 
controversial and are expressions of his ardent attach- 
ment to the Roman Catholic religion. 

In 1535, Sir Thomas More was unjustly imprisoned 
and condemned to death by Henry VIII., for refusing 
to take the oath of supremacy in which the king was 
declared to be supreme head of the Church. The 
self-possessed and heroic character of the man was well 
illustrated in his last moments; "the fatal stroke was about 
to fall, when he signed for a moment's delay while he 
moved his beard from the block. 'Pity that should be 
cut,' he murmured, 'that lias not c< >mmitted treason.' With 



EARLY ENGLISH PERIOD. 55 

such words, the strangest, perhaps, ever uttered at such 
a time, the lips most famous throughout Europe for elo- 
quence and wisdom closed forever." Faithfully and firm- 
ly attached to the principles of the Catholic faith, he lived 
amid the splendors of the court without pride, and per- 
ished on the scaffold without weakness. By a decree of 
Pope Leo XIII., December 29, 1886, he was declared 
Blessed, together with - Cardinal Fisher and thirty-two 
others who died as Christian martyrs between the years 
1535 and 1583. 

Roger Ascham, a native of Yorkshire, was sent at 
an early age to Cambridge, and during a lengthened resi- 
dence there he diligently promoted the study of the new 
learning. In 1544 he published his "Toxophilus," a trea- 
tise on archery. This work, dedicated to Henry VIII., 
was written to revive decaying interest in the use of the 
bow; it is distinguished by quiet dignity of style and 
manliness of spirit. 

In 1553 he was appointed Latin secretary to Edward 
VI., and he retained the office (Milton held it under 
Cromwell) during the reign of Mary. On the accession 
of Elizabeth, he received the additional appointment of 
reader in the learned languages to the queen. Elizabeth 
used to take lessons from him at a stated hour each day. 
In 1563 he wrote "The Schoolmaster," a treatise on edu- 
cation, still valuable for the principles and rules of teach- 
ing therein expounded. Johnson says that it contains 
"perhaps the best advice that was ever given for the study 
of languages." For a learned man to write a scholarly 
book in the English language, at the middle of the six- 
teenth century, was a startling innovation, and therefore 
Ascham presents the following apology in the preface of 
his work: 



56 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

"As for the Latin or Greek tongue, everything is so excel- 
lently done in them that none can do better; in the English 
tongue, contrary, everything in a manner so meanly, both for 
the matter and handling, that no man can do worse. * * * 
He that will write well in any tongue must follow the counsel 
of Aristotle, to speak as the common people do, to think as 
the wise men do, as so should every man understand him, 
and the judgment of wise men allow him." 

Roger Ascham died in 1568, having overtaxed his frail 
strength by too close application to the composition of 
a Latin poem which he intended to present to Queen 
Elizabeth on the anniversary of her accession to the 
throne. 







CHAPTER II. 

ELIZABETHAN PERIOD (1558—1625). 

After a brilliant opening under Chaucer, English liter- 
ature continued for more than a hundred and fifty years 
in poverty and feebleness, and it remained unvivified by 
genius even during the first half of the reign of Elizabeth. 
The peaceable and firmly settled state of the country under 
Elizabeth was largely instrumental in the rise of literary 
greatness. Under the tyranny of Henry YIIL, and in 
the short reigns of Edward and Mary, nothing was set- 
tled or secure; doubt, suspicion, and distrust prevented 
spontaneous action. The sagacity of Elizabeth and her 
able counselors detected the paramount political want of 
the country, and in consequence, a rather inglorious peace 
with France was concluded. The durable internal peace 
thus established was attended with happy results, and the 
general prosperity led her subjects to invest the sovereign 
under whom all this was done, with virtues and shining 
qualities not her own. Unfortunately there is a reverse 
to the picture. During this reign, Ireland was devastated 
with fire and sword, and the minority in England who 
adhered to the true faith became the victims of an organ- 
ized system of persecution and plunder. Cardinal Allen 
depicts a scene of martyred priests, of harried and plun- 
dered laymen, of tortured consciences and bleeding hearts, 
that blots from our view many smiling images of peace 
and plenty. But it cannot be denied that wealth poured 
into the kingdom, and with it came leisure which demand- 
ed entertainment. There was an awakening of the people 



58 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

to general social improvement; comforts were invented 
and used. 

"The gloomy walls and serried battlements of the feudal 
fortress now gave place to the pomp and grace of the 
Elizabethan hall. A mixed and florid architecture, the 
transition from Gothic to Classical, marked the dawn of 
the Renaissance. Tall molded and twisted chimneys, 
grouped in stacks; gilded turrets; fanciful weather-vanes; 
great oriel windows; and the stately terraces and broad 
flights of steps which led to a formal garden — marked the 
exterior of an Elizabethan mansion. In the interior were 
spacious apartments approached by grand staircases; im- 
mense mullioned windows; huge carved oak or marble 
chimney-pieces, reaching up to gilded and ornamented 
ceilings; and wainscoted walls covered with pictorial 
tapestries so loosely hung as to furnish a favorite hiding- 
place. Chimneys and large glass windows were the espe- 
cial 'modern improvements.' The houses, which three 
centuries before were lighted only by loop-holes, now 
reveled in a broad glare of sunlight; and the newly-found 
'chimney corner' brought increased domestic pleasure. 
A flower-garden was essential, and a surrounding moat 
was still common. Town-houses, constructed of an oak 
frame filled in with brick or with lath-and-plaster, had 
each successive story projecting over the next lower; so 
that in the narrow streets the inmates on the upper floor 
could almost shake hands with their neighbors across the 
way." 

Furniture, even in noble mansions, was still rude and 
defective; and though the lofty halls and banqueting- 
rooms" were hung with costly arras, the rooms in daily 
use were often bare enough. It was an age of orna- 
mental ironwork, and the 16th-century hearth and house- 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 59 

hold utensils were models of elegant design. The chief 
furniture of a mansion consisted of grotesquely carved 
dressers or cupboards ; round, folding tables ; a few chests 
and presses; sometimes a household clock, which was as 
yet a rarity; a day-bed or sofa, considered an excess of 
luxury; carpets for couches and floors; stiff, high-backed 
chairs; and some "forms"' or benches, with movable cush- 
ions. The bed was still the choicest piece of furniture. 
It was canopied and festooned like a throne ; the mattress 
was of the softest down; the sheets were Holland linen; 
and over the blankets was laid a coverlet embroidered 
in silk and gold with the arms of its owner. A portable 
bed was carried about in a leathern case whenever the 
lord traveled, for he was no longer content, like his ances- 
tors, with the floor or a hard bench. 

The poorer classes of Elizabeth's time had also im- 
proved in condition. Many still lived in hovels made 
of clay-plastered wattles, having a hole in the roof for 
chimney, and a clay floor strewed with rushes, under 
which lay unmolested an ancient collection of fragments. 
These were the people whose uncleanly habits fed the 
terrible plagues that periodically raged in England. But 
houses of brick and stone as well as of oak were now 
abundant among the yeomanry. The wooden ladle and 
trenches had given way to the pewter spoon and platter; 
and the feather bed and pillow were fast displacing the 
sack of straw and log bolster. Lea coal (mineral coal) 
began to be used in the better houses, as the destruction 
of forests had reduced the supply of firewood. The sul- 
phurous odor of the coal prejudiced many against its use, 
and it was forbidden to be burned in London during the 
sitting of Parliament, lest the health of the country mem- 
bers should suffer. 



60 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

At ,table all wore their hats, as they did also at church 
or at the theater. The noon dinner was the formal meal 
of the day, and was characterized by stately decorum. 
Forks were still unknown, but they were brought from 
Italy early in the 17th century. Bread and meats were 
presented on the point of a knife, the food being con- 
veyed to the mouth by the left hand. With common 
people, ale, spiced and prepared in various forms, was 
the popular drink; and the ale-houses of the day, which 
were frequented .too often by women, were centers of vice 
and dissipation. Tea and coffee were yet unknown, and 
were not introduced till the next century. 

Domestic manners were stern and formal. Sons, even 
in mature life, stood silent and uncovered in their father's 
presence, and daughters knelt on a cushion until their 
mother had retired. The yard-long fan-handles served for 
whipping-rods, and discipline was enforced so promptly 
and severely that grown-up men and women often trem- 
bled at the sight of their parents. 

Street=life. — No end of rogues and beggars passed and 
repassed from morning till night, and many a brawl, rob- 
bery, and even murder, a 16th-century Londoner could 
witness from his street-door. At night the narrow city- 
lanes swarmed with thieves, who skillfully dodged the 
rays of the flaring cresset borne by the marching watch. 
Fortunately early hours were fashionable, and nine o'clock 
saw the bulk of society-folk within their own homes. 
Along the wretched country roads most travel was on 
horseback, the ladies riding on a pillion behind a servant. 
There was no regular stage communication. On the 
great road to Scotland were sonic royal post stations, but 
ordinary letters were sent by chance merchants or by a 
special courier. 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 61 

The people, for the sake of amusement, took up the old 
popular drama which had come down from the very be- 
ginning of the Middle Ages, and which after a process of 
transformation and elaboration was developed into a 
nearly perfect condition as we find it in Shakespeare. The 
theatrical literature of England is independent in its origin, 
and characteristic in its form; and as it reflects faithfully 
the moral, social, and intellectual features of the people, 
we shall briefly trace its rise and progress. 

The Drama. — The origin of the drama may be traced 
to the odes chanted at the festivals of Bacchus, and the 
choruses sung in honor of Bacchus at the harvest-gather- 
ings among the Greeks. At the festivals, the principal 
sacrifice at the altar being a goat, the odes were called 
tragodia (goat-songs), hence our word tragedy; at the 
harvest-gatherings, the celebrations were in the villages, 
and the choruses were called komodia (village-songs), 
hence our word comedy. Later on, at the dawn of mod- 
ern civilization, most countries of Christian Europe pos- 
sessed a rude kind of theatrical entertainment, not like 
the plays of Greece and Rome, but representing the prin- 
cipal events recorded in Holy Scripture. These dramas 
were called "Mysteries" or "Miracle Plays," and seem to 
have been acted under the immediate management of the 
clergy, who deemed them favorable to the diffusion of 
religious feeling. At Oberammergau in Germany the 
custom of presenting the Passion Play still prevails. 

In the fifteenth century the Mysteries were superseded 
by allegorical plays called Moralities, in which sentiments 
and abstract ideas are represented by persons. Thus, 
instead of Jonathan and Satan of the Mystery, we meet 
Friendship and Vice. With the revival of learning, the 



62 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

plays of Terence and Plautus became generally known, 
and the career of the Moralities was shortened. 

The earliest known English comedy, "Ralph Roister 
Doister," is a professed imitation of the plays of Plautus 
and Terence, but it is of little interest except to a literary 
antiquarian. Its author was Nicholas Udall, master of 
Eton College, and it was published not later than 1551. 
English tragedy is of a later origin; the oldest specimen 
of this kind of composition is the tragedy of "Gorboduc," 
which was played before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall 
in 1 561. This work was the joint composition of Thomas 
Sackville, afterward Lord Buckingham, and Thomas Nor- 
ton, a Puritan lawyer. These were educated men, and it 
seems probable that they chose for the subject of their 
tragedy an episode taken from the legendary history of 
Britain, in imitation of the Greek tragedians, whose store- 
house of materials was the mythical history of Greece. 

Not long after the appearance of "Gorboduc" both 
tragedies and comedies had become common ; and be- 
tween the years 1568 and 1580 no fewer than fifty-two 
dramas were enacted at court under the superintendence 
of the Master of the Revels. The first theater was Black- 
friars, an old abandoned monastery just outside the city 
boundaries. This was so successful a venture that the 
owners erected, not far from London bridge, the Globe 
Theater, a hexagonal building intended for representa- 
tions during the pleasant weather of the summer months. 
Both of these theaters were destitute of roof except im- 
mediately over the stage. The "groundlings" in the pit 
stood upon the muddy ground with the open sky above 
them; the nobility and other favored ones sat at the sides 
of the stage or behind the wings. A flag placed upon 
the top of the theater announced the beginning of the play. 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 63 

which always took place early in the afternoon. Before 
the play, the main portion of the audience, those in the 
pit, amused themselves by smoking and drinking. Very 
simple contrivances were used for scenes; for tragedy 
the stage was hung with black tapestry. Whenever nec- 
essary, a placard announced the locality of the scene, as, 
London, Athens, Venice. A platform in the middle of 
the stage served for window, rampart, tower, and balcony. 
It was from this that Juliet held her interview with Romeo ; 
and that Abigail threw the bags of treasure to her father 
Barabas, the Jew of Malta. Between the acts the time 
was occupied with singing and buffoonery, and at the 
end of the play a comic dance with musical accompani- 
ment was performed. 

In the creation of his greatest characters, Shakespeare 
could not have manifested such strength and versatility 
had there been no great actor to take these parts and 
vitalize them on the stage. Richard Burbage, son of the 
original proprietor of Blackfriars, was v that actor. He was 
small in stature, graceful though fleshy, and handsome. 
Possessing great powers of mimicry, he became a perfect 
Proteus on the stage. Every emotion of the human heart 
could be plainly read upon his countenance ; he therefore 
excelled in the most difficult parts. He was the first Ro- 
meo, Henry V., Richard III., Brutus, Othello, Hamlet 
and Coriolanus, and in all of these characters he was 
equally great. Burbage's greatest contemporary was 
Edward Alleyn, who belonged to a rival company. Like 
Burbage he excelled in elevated characters, but unlike 
him, he did well in really comic parts. He played Orlando 
in "Orlando Furioso," Barabas in the "J ew of Malta," 
Faust and Tamburlaine. By some he was considered the 
equal of Burbage. With such actors the shortcomings of 



64 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

the stage could be, and were, easily overlooked. At the 
present day, the perfection of the stage appointments en- 
ables the spectator to overlook the glaring deficiencies 
of the actors. 

William Shakespeare (1564=1616). 

"I loved the man and do honor to his memory, on this side 
idolatry, as much as any. He was indeed honest, and of an 
open and free nature." — Ben Jonson. 

"I think most readers of Shakespeare sometimes find them- 
selves thrown into exalted mental conditions like those pro- 
duced by music. Then they may drop the book to pass at once 
into the region of thought without words." — 0. W. Holmes. 

"The name of Shakespeare is the greatest in our literature 
— it is the greatest in all literature. No man ever came near 
him in the creative powers of the mind; no man ever had 
such strength at once, and such variety of imagination. Cole- 
ridge has most felicitously applied to him a Greek epithet, 
given before to I know not whom, certainly none so deserving 
of it — 'the thousand-souled Shakespeare.' " — Hallam. 

The authentic biography of William Shakespeare is very 
brief. Of his early life and education we know but little. 
He was born in the town of Stratford-on-Avon in War- 
wickshire, England, April 23, 1564, and died there in 1616. 
Tradition says that he was a man of fine form and fea- 
tures, that he was beloved by all who knew him, and 
that he had the personal acquaintance of Elizabeth and 
of James I. His father, John Shakespeare, a glover, was 
in flourishing circumstances, having been one of the 
Aldermen of Stratford, and having served in the office 
of Bailiff or Mayor in 1569. That William Shakespeare 
could have obtained even the most elementary education 
from his parents seems impossible, for neither of them 
could write. This, however, was an accomplishment rare 
in Elizabeth's time. He attended the grammar school 
in Stratford, and this opportunity, together with the exten- 




WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 67 

sive though irregular reading of which his works give 
evidence, makes it probable that the poet had more train- 
ing than some of his admirers would give him credit for. 

At the age of eighteen he married Anne Hathaway, a 
young woman seven years his senior. Although much 
has been said about the probable unhappiness of this mar- 
riage, because of the disparity in age, there is in fact little 
reason for such a presumption. Three years after his 
marriage he went to London and joined a dramatic com- 
pany, following this career with industry and success. 
That -he was acquainted with his art is clear from the 
inimitable "directions to the players" put into the mouth 
of Hamlet, which, in incredibly few words, contain its 
whole system. There is a tradition that tells of his acting 
the Ghost in his tragedy of "Hamlet," the graceful and 
touching character of Adam, the faithful old servant, in 
his "As You Like It," the deeply pathetic impersonation 
of grief and despair in the popular tragedy of "Hiero- 
nymo," and the sensible Old Knowell in Ben Jonson's 
"Every Alan in His Humor." 

By adapting old plays to the demands of his theater 
he acquired that masterly knowledge of stage-effect, and 
evolved the dramatic genius which enabled him to write 
the greatest dramas in the literature of the world. His 
theatrical career continued from 1586 to 161 1, a period 
of twenty-five years, including his youth and the dignity 
and glory of his manhood. In 161 1 he sold his interest 
in the Globe Theater, left London, and withdrew to the 
quietude of his home. There five years were spent in a 
leisure that must have been a strange contrast to the 
busy, thronging cares that had attended his professional 
life. An active interest in the welfare of his town, an 
occasional visit to London, generous entertainment of 



68 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

his friends, and the composition of one or two of his most 
famous dramas, seem to have occupied these years of re- 
tirement. He died on the 23d of April, 1616, the anni- 
versary of his birthday, and was buried in the parish 
church of Stratford. 

A distinguishing peculiarity of this poet is his freedom 
from any tendency to egotism. From his dramas we 
learn nothing whatever of his sympathies. He is abso- 
lutely impersonal, or rather he is all persons in turn; he 
identifies himself with a multitude of diverse individuali- 
ties, and he does this so completely that we cannot detect 
a trace of preference. His characters are real flesh and 
blood. We know them, not by descriptions of them, but 
by actual intercourse with them, and the more familiar 
the student becomes with them, the more life-like they 
are. This is his greatest power, that he makes realities 
out of that which others make into pictures and dreams. 
In no class of his impersonations are the depth, the deli- 
cacy and the extent of his creative power more visible than 
in his delineations of women. "It would be gratifying 
and instructive," says Hudson, "to be let into the domestic 
life and character of the poet's mother. That both her 
nature and her discipline had much to do in making him 
what he was, can hardly be questioned. Whatsoever of 
woman's beauty and sweetness and wisdom was expressed 
in her life and manners could not but be caught up and 
repeated in his fertile mind. He must have grown familiar 
with the noblest parts of womanhood somewhere; and I 
can scarce conceive how he should have learned them 
so well, but that the light and glory of them beamed upon 
him from his mother." 

The religious faith of Shakespeare is not definitely 
known, but his works are pre-eminently Catholic in their 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 69 

grandest and purest passages. Fear or ambition may have 
restrained him from open profession of his faith, but how- 
ever this may be, it is certain that no sneer at the rites 
or mysteries of the Catholic religion can be found on his 
pages. As to his morality, Cardinal Newman says: 
"There is no mistaking in his works on which side lies 
the right. There is in him neither contempt of "religion 
nor scepticism. Satan is not made a hero, nor Cain a 
victim; but pride is pride, and vice is vice, and whatever 
indulgence he may allow himself in light thoughts or 
unseemly words, yet his admiration is reserved for sanctity 
and truth. Often as he may offend against modesty, he 
is clear of a worse charge, sensuality, and hardly a passage 
can be instanced in all that he has written, to seduce the 
imagination or to excite the passions." It must also be 
remembered that he lived in an age when much more 
freedom was permitted in conversation than would be 
tolerated in our day. 

According to FurnivalFs table, the names of Shake- 
speare's works, and the dates of their production, are as 
follows : 

Comedies. — "Love's Labour Lost," 1588 or 1589; 
"Comedy of Errors," 1589 to 1591; "Midsummer Night's 
Dream," 1590; "Two Gentlemen of Verona," 1590 to 
1592; "Merchant of Venice," 1596; "Taming of the 
Shrew," of which Shakespeare wrote only the Katharine 
and Petruchio scenes, 1596 or 1597; "Merry Wives of 
Windsor," 1598 or 1599; "Much Ado About Nothing," 
1599 or 1600; "As You Like It," 1600; "Twelfth Night," 
1601 ; "All's Well That Ends Well," which Shakespeare 
recast from an old play, 1601 or 1602; "Measure for 
Measure," 1603; "Tempest," 1610; and "Winter's Tale," 
1611. 



70 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Tragedies. — "Romeo and Juliet," 1591 to 1593; "Ham- 
let," 1602 or 1603; "Othello," 1604; "Macbeth," 1605 or 
1606; "King Lear," 1605 or 1606; "Cymbeline," 1610 to 
1612. 

Histories.— "Titus Andronicus," 1588; "First Part of 
Henry VI.," 1590 to 1592. These were only touched up 
by Shakespeare. "Second Part of Henry VI.," recast from 
another play, 1592 to 1594; "Richard IT," 1593 or 1594; 
"Third Part of Henry VI.," recast from another play, 
1592 to 1594; "Richard III.," 1594; "King John," 1595; 
"First Part of Henry IV.," 1596 or 1597; "Second Part of 
Henry IV.," 1597 or 1598; "King Henry V.," 1599; 
"Julius Caesar," 1601; "Troilus and Cressida," 1606 or 
1607; "Antony and Cleopatra," 1606 or 1607; "Corio- 
lanus," 1607 or 1608; "Timon of Athens," 1607 or 1608; 
"Pericles," 1608; "Henry VIII.," 1613; of the three last 
mentioned Shakespeare wrote only a part. 

Long Poems. — "Venus and Adonis," 1593; "Rape of 
Lucrece," 1594. 

Sonnets. — 1592 to 1608. 

MACBETH. 

The story of Macbeth is taken from a legend of Scot- 
tish history. A chieftain of that name killed Duncan in 
1040, and was proclaimed king of Scotland, but was de- 
feated afterward at Dunsinane, Perthshire, by Seward, 
earl of Northumberland. The life of Macbeth as depicted 
by Shakespeare is the history of a monomania. The 
witches' prophecy has sunk into his mind, like a fixed idea. 
Gradually this idea corrupts the rest, and transforms the 
whole man. Macbeth's hallucination becomes complete 
when his wife has persuaded him to assassinate the king. 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 71 

Having done the deed, he has a strange dream; a frightful 
vision of the punishment that awaits him descends upon 
him. Above the beating of his heart, above the tingling 
of the blood which seethes in his brain, he hears the cry, 
"Sleep no more!" A voice like an angel's trumpet calls 
him by all his titles : 

"Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor 
Shall sleep no more; Macbeth shall sleep no more!" 

This idea, incessantly repeated, beats in his brain, with 
monotonous and quick strokes, like the tongue of a bell. 
Insanity begins; thenceforth in his rare lucid intervals 
he is like a man worn out by a long malady. 

"Had I but died an hour before this chance, 
I had lived a blessed time; for, from this instant 
There's nothing serious in mortality; 
All is but toys; renown and grace is dead; 
The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees 
Is left this vault to brag of." 

The action of the drama proceeds with breathless rapid- 
ity. The first crime, engendered by that "vaulting ambi- 
tion which doth o'erleap itself," necessitates the commis- 
sion of others to avert the consequences of the first. A 
large part of a life is presented to our eyes in the light 
of one great, gilded, successful crime, until at last it top- 
ples over, and is quenched with the suddenness of an 
expiring rocket. 

"Macbeth" teaches us how one sin involves another, 
and forever another, by a fatal parthenogenesis ; and that 
the key which unlocks forbidden doors to our will or 
passion leaves a stain on the hand that may not be so 
dark as blood, but that "will not out." 



72 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

MACBETH. 
ACT I— SCENE VII. 

Macbeth. — If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well 
It were done -quickly; if th' assassination 
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch, 
With its surcease, success; that but this blow 
Might be the be-all and the end-all here, 
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, 
We'd jump the life to come. But in these cases 
We still have judgment here; that we but teach 
Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return 
To plague th' inventor; this even-handed justice 
Commends th' ingredients of our poison'd chalice 
To our own lips. He's here in double trust: 

First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, 

Strong both against the deed; then, as his host, 

Who should against his murderer shut the door, 

Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan 

Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been 

So clear in his great office, that his virtues 

Will plead like angels trumpet-tongued against 

The deep damnation of his taking-off; 

And pity, like a naked new-born babe 

Striding the blast, or Heaven's cherubim horsed 

Upon the sightless couriers of the air, 

Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, 

That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur 

To prick the sides of my intent, but only 

Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself, 

And falls on th' other side. [Enter Lady Macbeth.] How 
now! what news? 
Lady M. — He has almost supp'd; why have you left the 

chamber? 

Macb. — Hath he asked for me? 

Lady M. — Know you not he has? 

Macb.— We will proceed no further in this business: 

He hath honour'd me of late; and I have bought 

Golden opinions from all sorts of people, 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 73 

Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, 
Not cast aside so soon. 

Lady M. — Was the hope drunk 

Wherein you 'dressed yourself? Hath it slept since? 
And wakes it now, to look so green and pale 
At what it did so freely? From this time . 

Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard 
To be the same in thine own act and valour < 

As thou art in desire? Would'st thou lack that 
Which thou esteem 'st the ornament of life, 
And live a coward- in thine own esteem, 
Letting I dare not wait upon I would, 
Like the poor cat i' the adage? 

Macb. — Pr'ythee, peace: 

I dare do all that may become a man; 
Who dares do more is none. 

ACT II.— -SCENE I. 

Lady M. — That which hath made them drunk hath made 
me bold; 

What hath quench'd them hath given me fire. — Hark! Peace! 
It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman, 
Which gives the stern'st good-night. He is about it: 
The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms 
Do mock their charge with snores: I've drugged their possets, 
That death and nature do contend about them, 
Whether they live or die. 
Macb.— [Within]— Who's there? what, ho! 

Lady M. — Alack, I am afraid they have awaked, 
And 'tis not done. Th' attempt and not the deed 
Confounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers ready; 
He could not miss 'em. Had he not resembled 
My father as he slept, I had done't. — My husband! 

[Enter Macbeth.] 

Macb. — I've done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise? 

Lady M.— I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. 
Did not you speak? 

Macb.— When? 

Lady M. — Now. 

Macb.— As. I descended? 

Lady M. — Ay. 



74 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Macb. — Hark! "Who lies i' the second chamber? 

Lady M. — Donalbain. 
Macb. — [Looking on his hands] — This is a sorry sight. 

Lady M. — A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. 

Macb. — There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried. 
Murder! 

That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them: 
But they did say their prayers, and address'd them 
Again to sleep. 

Lady M. — There are two lodged together. 
Macb. — One cried God bless us! and Amen! the other 
As they had seen me with these hangman's hands, 
Listening to their fear: I could not say Amen, 
When they did say Ood bless us ! 

Lady M. — Consider it not so deeply. 
Macb. — But wherefore could I not pronounce Amen? 
I had most need of blessing, and Amen 
Stuck in my throat. 

Lady M. — These deeds must not be thought 

After these ways: so, it will make us mad. 

Macb. — Methought I heard a voice cry Sleep no more ! 
Macbeth does not murder sleep; — innocent sleep. 
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care; 
The death of each day's life, s®re labour's bath, 
Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course, 
Chief nourisher in life's feast, — 

Lady M. — What do you mean? 

Macb. — Still it cried Sleep no more! to all the house: 
Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Caivdor 
Shall sleep no more, — Macbeth shall sleep no more! 

Lady M. — Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy, thane, 
You do unbend your noble strength, to think 
So brainsickly of things. Go get some water, 
And wash this filthy witness from your hand. 
Why did you bring these daggers from the place? 
They must lie there: go carry them, and smear 
The sleepy grooms with blood. 

Macb. — I'll go no more: 

I am afraid to think what I have done; 
Look on't again I dare not. 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 75 

Lady M. — : Infirm of purpose, 

Give me the daggers! the sleeping and the dead 
Are but as pictures; 'tis the eye of childhood 
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, 
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal; 
For it must seem their guilt. [Exit. Knocking within.] 

Macb. — Whence is that knocking? 

How is't with me, when every noise appals me? 
What hands are here? Ha! they pluck out mine eyes! 
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood 
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather 
The multitudinous sea incarnadine, 
Making the green — one red. [Re-eater Lady Macbeth.] 

Lady M.— My hands are of your colour, but I shame 
To wear a heart so white. [Knocking.] I hear a knocking 
At the south entry: retire we to our chamber. 
A little water clears us of this deed: 
How easy is it, then! Your constancy 
Hath left you unattended. Hark! more knocking. 
Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us, 
And show us to be watchers'. Be not lost 
So poorly in your thoughts. 

Macb. — To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself. 
[Knocking.] 
Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst! 

ACT III.— SCENE II. 

Lady M. — Nought's had, all's spent, 

Where our desire is got without content, 
'Tis safer to be that which we destroy 

Than by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy. — [Enter Macbeth.] 
How now, my lord! why do you keep alone, 
Of sorriest fancies your companions making; 
Using those thoughts which should indeed have died 
With them they think on? Things without all remedy 
Should be without regard: what's done is done. 

Macb. — We have but scotch'd the snake, not killed it: 
She'll close, and be herself; whilst our poor malice 
Remains in danger of her former tooth. But let 



76 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

The frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, 

Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep 

In the affliction of these terrible dreams 

That shake us nightly: better be with the dead, 

Whom we, to gain our place, have sent to peace, 

Than on the torture of the mind to lie 

In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave; 

After life's fitful fever he sleeps well; 

Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison, 

Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, 

Can touch him further. 

Lady M. — Come on; gentle my lord, 

Sleek o'er your rugged looks; be bright and jovial 
Among your guests to-night. 

Macb. — So shall I, love; 

And so, I pray, be you; let your remembrance 
Apply to Banquo; present him eminence, both 
With eye and tongue: unsafe the while, that we 
Must lave our honours in these flattering streams; 
, And make our faces vizards to our hearts, 
Disguising what they are. 

Lady M. — You must leave this. 

Macb.— 0, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! 
Thou know'st that Banquo and his Fleance live. 

Lady M. — But in them nature's copy's not eterne. 

Macb. — There's comfort yet; they are assailable; 
Then be thou jocund: ere the bat hath flown 
His cloister'd flight; ere to black Hecate's summons, 
The shard-borne beetle with his drowsy hums 
Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done 
A deed of dreadful note. 

Lady M. — What's to be clone? 

Macb.— Be innocent of the knowledge, clearest chuck, 
Till thou applaud the deed. Come seeling night, 
Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day, 
And with thy bloody and invisible hand 
Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond 
Which keeps me paled! 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 77 

ACT III.— SCENE IV. 

Macb. — You know your own degrees; sit down: at first 
And last the hearty welcome. 

Lords. — Thanks to your Majesty. 

Macb. — Ourself will mingle with society, 
And play the humble host. Our hostess keeps her state; 
But in best time we will require her welcome. 

Lady M. — Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends; 
For my heart speaks they're welcome. 

[First murderer appears at the door.] 

Macb. — See, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks. 
Both sides are even: here I'll sit i' the midst. 
Be large in mirth; anon we'll drink a measure 
The table round. [Goes to the door.] There's blood upon 
thy face. 

Mur. — 'Tis Banquo's, then. 

Macb. — 'Tis better thee without than him within. 
Is he dispatch'd? 

Mur. — My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him. 

Macb. — Thou art the best o' the cut-throats: yet he's good 
That did the like for Fleance: if thou didst it, 
Thou art the nonpareil. 

Mur. — Most royal sir, 

Fleance is 'scaped. 

Macb.— Then comes my fit again: I had else been perfect; 
Whole as the marble, founded as the rock; 
As broad and general as the casing air; 
But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, bound-in 
To saucy doubts and fears. — But Banquo's safe? 

Mur. — Ay, my good lord: safe in a ditch he bides, 
With twenty trenched gashes on his head, 
The least a death to nature. 

Macb. — Thanks for that. 

There the grown serpent lies; the worm that's fled 
Hath nature that in time will venom breed, 
No teeth for th' present. — Get thee gone: to-morrow 
We'll hear't, ourself, again. 

Lady M. — My royal lord, 

You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold 



78 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

That is~not often vouch'd, while 'tis a-making, 
'Tis given with welcome: to feed were best at home; 
From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony; 
Meeting were bare without it. 

Macb. — Sweet remembrancer! — 

Now, good digestion wait on appetite, 
And health on both! 

[Ghost of Banquo eniers, and sits in Macbeth' & place. 

Lennox. — May't please your Highness sit. 

Macb. — Here had we now our country's honour roof d, 
Were the graced person of our Banquo present; 
Who may I rather challenge for unkindness 
Than pity for mischance. 

Ross. — His absence, sir, 

Lays blame upon his promise. Please your Highness 
To grace us with your royal company. 

Macb.— The table's full! 

Len. — Here is a place reserved, sir. 

Macb.— Where? 

Len. — Here, my good lord. What is't that move? your 
Highness? 

Macb. — Which of you have done this? 

Lords.— What, my good lord? 

Macb. — Thou canst not say I did it: never shake 
Thy gory locks at me. 

Ross. — Gentlemen, rise; his Highness is not well. 

Lady M. — Sit, worthy friends: my lord is often thus, 
And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat. 
The fit is momentary; upon a thought 
He will again be well: if much you note him, 
You shall offend him and extend his passion; 
Feed, and regard him not. — Are you a man? 

Macb. — Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that 
Which might appal the Devil. 

Lady M— [Aside to Macbeth]— O proper stuff ! 
This is the very painting of your fear: 
This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said, 
Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws and starts, 
Impostors to true fear, would well become 
A woman's story at a Winter's fire, 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 79 

Authorized by her grandam. Shame itself! 
Why do you make such faces? When all's done 
You look but on a stool. 

Macb. — Pr'y thee, see there! behold! look! lo! how say you? 
Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too. 
If charnel-houses and our graves must send 
Those that we bury back, our monuments 
Shall be the maws of kites. [Ghost vanishes.] 

Lady M. — What quite unmann'd in folly? 

Macb. — If I stand here, I saw him. 

Lady M. — Fie, for shame! 

Macb. — Blood hath been shed ere now: i' the olden time, 
Ere humane statute purged the gentle weal, 
Ay, and since too, murders have been perform'd 
Too terrible for the ear. The time has been, 
That when the brains were out the man would die, 
•And there an end; but now they rise again, 
With twenty mortal gashes on their crowns, 
And push us from our stools: this is more strange 
Than such a murder is. 

Lady M. — My worthy lord, 

Your noble friends do lack you. 

Macb. — I do forget: — 

Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends; 
I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing 
To those that know me. Come, love and health to all; 
Then I'll sit down.— Give me some wine, fill full. — 
I drink to th' general joy of the whole table, 
And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss: 
Would he were here! to all and him we thirst, 
And all to all. 
Lords. — Our duties and the pledge. [Re-enter the Ghost.] 

Macb. — Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! 
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; 
Thou hast no speculation in»those eyes 
Which thou dost glare with. 

Lady M. — Think of this, good peers, 

But as a thing of custom: 'tis no other;. 
Only it spoils the pleasure of the time. 

Macb. — What man dare, I dare: 



80 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, 

The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; 

Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves 

Shall never tremble: or be alive again, 

And dare me to the desert with thy sword; 

If trembling I inhabit then, protest me 

The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow! 

Unreal mockery, hence ! [Ghost vanishes.] Why, so: being 

gone, 
I am a man again. — Pray you, sit still. 

Lady M. — You have displaced the mirth, broke the good 
meeting, 
With most admired disorder. 

Macb. — Can such things be, 

And overcome us like a summer's cloud, 
Without our special wonder? You make me strange 
Even to the disposition that I owe, * 

When now I think you can behold such sights, 
And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, 
When mine are blanched with fear. 

Ross. — W T hat sights, my lord? 

Lady M. — I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse; 
Question enrages him. At once, good-night: 
Stand not upon the order of your going, 
But go at once. 

Len. — Good-night; and better health 
Attend his Majesty! 

Lady M. — A kind good-night to all! 

ACT V.— SCENE I. 

Doctor. — I have two nights watch'd with you, but can per- 
ceive no truth in your report. When was't she last walked? 

Gentlewoman. — Since his Majesty went into the field. I 
have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon 
her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon't, 
read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all 
this while in a most fast sleep. 

Doctor. — A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once 
the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching! In this 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 81 

slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual 
performances, what at any time have you heard her say? 

Gentlew. — That, sir, which I will not report after her. 

Doctor. — You may to me; and 'tis most meet you should. 

Gentlew. — Neither to you nor anyone; having no witness 
to confirm my speech. [Enter Lady Macbeth with a taper.] 

Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon 
my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. 

Doctor. — How came she by that light? 

Gentlew. — Why, it stood by her: she has light by her 
continually; 'tis her command. 

Doctor. — You see, her eyes are open. 

Gentlew. — Ay, but their sense is shut. 

Doctor.— What is it she does now? Look, how she rubs 
her hands. 

Gentlew. — It is an accustom'd action with her, to seem 
thus washing her hands: I have known her continue in this 
a quarter of an hour. 

Lady M. — Yet here's a spot. 

Doctor. — Hark! she speaks: I will set down what comes 
from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. 

Lady M. — Out, damned spot ! out, I say ! — One, two ; why, 
then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky! — Fie, my lord, fie! a 
soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when 
none can call our power to account?— Yet who would have 
thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? 

Doctor. — Do you mark that? 

Lady M. — The Thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now? 
—What, will these hands ne'er be clean? — No more o' that, my 
lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting. 

Doctor. — Go to, go to; you have known what you should 
not. 

Gentlew. — She has spoke what she should not, I am sure 
of that: Heaven knows what she has known. 

Lady M. — Here's the smell of the blood still: all the per- 
fumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. O! O! O! 

Doctor. — What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely 
charged. 

Gentlew. — I would not have such a heart in my bosom for 
the dignity of the whole body. 



82 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Doctor. — Well, well, well, — 

Gentlew. — Pray God it be, sir. 

Doctor.— This disease is beyond my practice: yet I have 
known those which have walk'd in their sleep, who have died 
holily in their beds. 

Lady M. — Wash your hands, put on your nightgown, look 
not so pale. I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot 
come out on's grave. 

Doctor. — Even' so. 

Lady M.— To bed, to bed! there's knocking at the gate: 
come, come, come, come, give me your hand: what's done 
cannot be undone: to bed, to bed, to bed! 

Doctor. — Will she go now to bed? 

Gentlew. — Directly. 

Doctor. — Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds 
Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds 
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. 
More needs she the divine than the physician. — 
God, God forgive us all! — Look after her; 
Remove from her the means of all annoyance, 
And still keep eyes upon her. So, good-night: 
My mind she has mated and amazed my sight. 
I think, but dare not speak. 

Gentlew. — Good-night, good doctor. 

Foreign Contemporaries.— As the Renaissance or new 
birth of literature was not confined to England, Shake- 
speare's foreign contemporaries were many and noted. 
Spain, France and Italy could each count a larger num- 
ber of poets than England. In dramatic literature espe- 
cially, Spain excelled. 

The most famous of the Spanish dramatists was Lope 
de Vega, who died in 1635 at the age of seventy-three 
years. He was the author of about eighteen hundred 
plays. He began his career in 1588, and although he 
became a priest in 1609, he continued indefatigable in 
his dramatic work. He was a prodigy of nature; not 
that we can ascribe to him a sublime genius, but his fer^ 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 83 

tility of invention and readiness of versifying are beyond 
competition. He would sometimes write a play in three 
or four hours; in twenty-four hours write a drama in 
three acts. His aim was to paint what he observed, not 
what he would have approved, in the manners of the 
fashionable world of his age. Taine says: "A volunteer 
at fifteen, a passionate lover, a wandering duelist, a soldier 
of the Armada, finally a priest; so ardent that he fasts 
till he is exhausted, faints with emotion while singing 
mass, and in his flagellations stains the walls of his cell 
with blood." Lope de Vega may well be considered a 
prodigy of nature. 

A GEM FROM LOPE DE VEGA. 

Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care 

Thou didst seek after me, that Thou didst wait 
Wet with unhealthy dews before my gate, 

And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? 

O strange delusion — that I did not greet 

Thy blessed approach! and O, to heaven how lost, 
If my ingratitude's unkindly frost 

Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon Thy feet! 
How oft my guardian angel gently cried: — 

"Soul, from thy casement look without and see 
How He persists to knock and wait for thee!'' 
And 0, how often to that voice of sorrow: — 
"To-morrow we will open," I replied; 

And when to-morrow came, I answered still — 
"To-morrow!" 

Saavedra Cervantes (1547=1616). — Cervantes is a 
literary artist who began his career by writing verses 
when he was still a mere child. He served as chamberlain 
in the household of Monseigneur Aquaviva (who was 
afterward cardinal) at Rome. He volunteered as a com- 
mon soldier in the expedition organized by the Pope and 



84 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

the state of Venice against the Turks, and was severely 
wounded, losing the use of his left hand and arm for life. 
He wrote twenty or thirty plays, but his genius did not 
lie in that direction. The whole force of the Spanish 
language is embodied in his master-piece, "Don Quixote.'' 
The book contains simple amusement for youth, and pro- 
found thought for old age. In a pleasant manner, it 
brushed away an evil without destroying with it either 
morality or the wholesome customs of society. It is inno- 
cent, amusing, and serious; it is a most accurate picture 
of the customs and manners of Spain in the sixteenth 
century. It is with all people, and deservedly so, a stand- 
ing monument of allusion and a source of frequent quota- 
tion. In its philosophical aspect, it represents the shock 
received by aspiration and day-dreams when they come 
in contact with the prosaic realities of life. From "Don 
Quixote" the general mind has learned the lesson that 
in this work-a-day world, romancing is for the imagina- 
tion alone. 

Pedro Calderon de la Barca (1600=1681).— This 
celebrated Spanish dramatist and poet was educated first 
by the Jesuits and then at Salamanca. He served the 
army at various times, and devoted his leisure moments 
to literature. He was patronized by Philip IV., and was 
formally attached to the court, furnishing dramas for the 
royal theaters. He became a priest of the Congregation 
of St. Peter, and afterward became Superior General of 
the Order, an office which he held until his death. Cal- 
deron is both poet and priest. For thirty-seven wars he 
composed the Corpus Cbristi plays which were performed 
under the auspices of the Cathedrals of Toledo, Seville, 
and Granada. These plays were accompanied by music 
and scenes the most sroroeous. Noting the ease and skill 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 85 

with which the poet projects his inmost thoughts into 
outward representation, we marvel at the power of his 
genius. It is customary to judge Calderon by his secular 
plays, but his best work, his most perfect art, he put into 
his religious plays. They are the most beautiful wreaths 
ever woven by human genius to be placed before the 
Real Presence. "We feel," says Baron von Eichendorff, 
"that under the terrestrial veil lies silent the unfathomable 
song which is the voice of all things, lost, as it were, in 
dreams of unutterable longing; but Calderon speaks the 
magic word, and the world begins to sing." 

Michael Eyquem de Montaigne (1553=1592). — This 
French writer is chiefly known by his "Essais." In 
these Essays Montaigne studies the men of the society 
of his day. He examines everything in a skeptical spirit, 
is inclined to doubt, and his motto is "Que sais-je?" Mon- 
taigne's ideas and influence may be traced in many of 
the best French authors of the 17th and 18th centuries, 
while outside of France his Essays were diligently read 
by Bacon and Shakespeare. 

English Contemporaries. 

Edmund Spenser (1553=1599). 

"Among the poets belonging to Elizabeth's reign, Spenser 
stands without a class and without a rival. There are few 
eminent poets in the language who have not been essentially- 
indebted to him." — Campbell. 

"The poetry of Spenser is remarkable for brilliant imagina- 
tion, fertile invention, and flowing rhythm; yet, with all these 
recommendations, it is cold and tedious." — Chateaubriand. 

The birth-place of Spenser was East Smithfield, Lon- 
don, near the Tower. Of his youth we know but little; 
his parents though well-connected were poor, and their 
son entered Pembroke College, Cambridge, as a sizar. 



86 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

The principal duty of a sizar was to wait on the college 
pensioners called Fellows. Spenser's education was ac- 
quired under these humiliating conditions; nevertheless 
he became an excellent scholar, receiving his degree of 
M. A. in 1576. 

After leaving college, Spenser became a tutor in the 
north of England, and at this time wrote the "Shepherd's 
Calendar." Through the influence of Gabriel Harvey, 
with whom Spenser had formed an intimate acquaintance 
while at college, he was introduced to Sir Philip Sidney, 
and the friendship of this man was of great value to the 
struggling poet. Sidney presented him to Dudley, Earl 
of Leicester, the favorite of Elizabeth, and Dudley 
brought him into the notice of the queen. To her, Spen- 
ser paid literary homage, and received a grant of land in 
Ireland. His residence there, Kilcolman Castle, not far 
from Cork, was a desolate place; the plain was boggy, 
- the hills and river at least two miles away. Here, far 
removed from the society of literary men, and bitterly 
hated by the Irish peasantry, he composed the ''Faery 
Queene," the most important of his poetical works. In 
1 591 a pension of fifty pounds a year was decreed to him 
by the queen, thus virtually making him poet laureate. 
In 1598 Tyrconnelfs rebellion broke out; Spenser's castle 
was attacked and burned, and his infant child perished 
in the flames. From the shock of this calamity Spenser 
never recovered. He died in a common lodging-house 
in London, January, 1599, impoverished and broken- 
hearted. Spenser was buried by the side of Chaucer in 
Westminster Abbey. "Expectations and rebuffs, many 
sorrows and many dreams, some few joys and a sudden 
and frightful calamity, a small fortune and a premature 
end; this," says Taine, "was the poet's life." 




EDMUND SPENSER, 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 89 

In richness of imagery Spenser has perhaps never been 
equaled. Being naturally a creator and dreamer, his style 
is redundant but clear and pure. In circumstantial de- 
scription he is tediously minute, and every reader has 
keen sympathy for the toiling patience which polished 
and decorated even the most obscure parts of his poems. 
His most important works are 'The Faery Oueene," "The 
Shepherd's Calendar," and "A View of the State of Ire- 
land." 

His greatest work, "The Faery Oueene," is a brilliant 
poetical description of the sentiments of chivalry. The 
original plan proposed twelve books, each book recount- 
ing the exploits of a knight and the triumph of a virtue. 
The poem contains a double allegory and yet it is per- 
fectly clear. The following explanation will be useful as 
illustrative of the double allegory. The Faery Queene 
means in general The Glory of God; and in particular, 
Queen Elizabeth. Britomartis, the heroine of the third 
book, means Chastity, and also stands for Elizabeth. 
Arthur means Magnificence, and also the Earl of Leices- 
ter. The Red Cross Knight is Holiness and also the. 
model Englishman; Una, Truth and the Protestant 
Church; Duessa, Falsehood and Mary, Queen of Scots. 
The fact that the corrupt and perhaps murderous Leices- 
ter, the queen's favorite, was Arthur, the hero of the 
poem, is sufficient to make us stop further inquiry into 
the truth of the allegory. 

Only six books of the poem were published, but the 
incompleteness of the work is not to be regretted, for 
the vigor and splendor of the first three books decline in 
the fourth, fifth and sixth. Macaulay says: "One unpar- 
donable fault, the fault of tediousness, pervades the 'Faery 
Queene.' We become sick of cardinal virtues and deadly 



90 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

sins, and long for the society of plain men and women. 
Of the persons who read the first canto, not one in ten 
reaches the end of the first book, and not one in a hundred 
perseveres to the end of the poem." 

No poetry is more uniformly and exquisitely musical 
than Spenser's. The richness of the sound and the sweet- 
ness of the rhythm would make the verse enervating were 
he not a master who modulates the sound and paints the 
pictures for the fancy. The sonorous, grand stanza in- 
vented by him, and called after him the Spenserian, con- 
sists of nine lines and is formed by adding an Alexandrine 
to Chaucer's stanza of eight lines. 

Many subsequent poets have been indebted to Spenser 
for much of their inspiration; Pope, Addison, Cowley, 
Gray, and Collins acknowledge their obligations to him. 
Some idea of the depth and richness of his imagination 
may be gained from the following extracts: 

THE CAVE OF MAMMON. 

(From "The Faery Queene." Book II, Canto VII.) 
At length they came into a larger space 

That stretched itself into an ample plain, 
Through which a beaten broad highway did trace 
That straight did lead to Pluto's grisly reign, 
By that way's side there sat infernal Pain, 

And fast beside him sat tumultuous Strife. 
The one in hand an iron whip did strain, 
The other brandished a bloody knife, 

And both did gnash their teeth and both did threaten 
Life. 

Before the door sat self-consuming Care, 

Day and night keeping wary watch and ward, 

For fear lest Force or Fraud should unaware 

Break in and spoil the treasure there in guard; 

Nor would he suffer Sleep once thitherward 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 91 

Approach, although his drowsy den were next, 
For next to death is sleep to be compared; 
Therefore his house is unto his annexed; 

Here Sleep, there Riches, and hell-gate them betwixt. 

TRUE BEAUTY. 

(Sonnet LXXIX.) 
Men call you fair, and you do credit it, 

For that yourself you daily such do see; 
But the true fair, that is the gentle wit 

And virtuous mind, is much more praised of me. 
For all the rest, however fair it be, 

Shall turn to naught and lose that glorious hue; 
But only that is permanent and free 

From all frail corruption, that doth flesh ensue. 
That is true beauty, that doth argue you 

To be divine, and born of heavenly seed; 
Derived from that fair spirit from whom all true 

And perfect beauty did at first proceed. 

He only fair, and what he fair hath made; 

All other fair, like flowers untimely fade. 

SWEET TEMPERED WITH SOUR. 

(Sonnet XXVI.) 
Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere; 
Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough; 
Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh near; 
Sweet is the firbloom, but his branches rough; 
Sweet is the Cyprus, but his rind is tough; 
Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill; 
Sweet is the broom flower, but yet sour enough; 
And sweet is moly, but his root is ill; 
So, every sweet with sour is tempered still; 
That maketh it be coveted the more; 
For easy things that may be got at will 
Most sorts of men do set but little store. 
Why. then should I account of little pain 
That endless pleasure shall unto me gain? 



92 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Sir Francis Bacon (1561=1626). 

"I reverence him for the greatness that was only proper to 
him; he seemed to me ever, by his work, one of the greatest 
men and most worthy of admiration that had been for ages. 
In his adversity I ever prayed God would give him strength; 
for greatness he could not want." — Ben Jonson. 

Francis Bacon was the younger and favorite son of 
Sir Nicholas Bacon, Lord-keeper of the Great Seal of 
England, and one of the statesmen who gave the reign of 
Elizabeth its glory. His mother, Anne, daughter of Sir 
Anthony Cook, was a woman of stern integrity of char- 
acter; "exquisitely skilled in the Latin and Greek tongues." 
Under parental influences in which were blended dignity, 
intelligence, and refinement, in the elegance of an Eng- 
lish nobleman's palace, amid the associations of cultivated 
society, he had opportunity for the development of cour- 
tiership, self-esteem, observation and thoughtfulness. He 
was born in 1561, and during his boyhood he was very 
delicate, though his mind was precocious. Queen Eliza- 
beth was fond of him, often calling him her little lord- 
keeper. He was sent to Trinity College, Cambridge, at 
the age of thirteen and left there before he was sixteen, in 
order to live in France as an attache of the English am- 
bassador. During the two years he spent upon the con- 
tinent, he was observant and studious, and was interested 
in collecting material for his first literary work, "Of the 
State of England." In 1579 he returned to England, and 
owing to the death of his father, he adopted the profes- 
sion of the law and became distinguished in it, although 
it was to him a secondary object. In 1584 he entered 
parliament, where he was recognized as a masterly orator. 
Ben Jonson says: "No man ever spoke more neatly, 
more weightily, or suffered less idleness in what he ut- 
tered. He commanded where he spoke and had his 




LORD FRANCIS BACON. 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 95 

judges angry and pleased at his devotion. No man had 
their affections more in his power. The fear of every man 
that heard him was lest he should make an end." He 
offended the queen by one of his speeches, and although 
she never treated him unkindly, she refused to give him 
an office. Failing in his repeated efforts to secure some 
political office from his uncle, Burleigh, the Lord Treas- 
urer, Bacon sought and won the friendship of Essex, his 
uncle's rival. Essex gave him large sums of money, and 
tried, though without avail, to restore him to the favor 
of the queen. A few years after this, in 1601, when Essex 
was tried for treason, Bacon was called upon to prosecute 
his old friend. The charges were proved, and the penalty 
of death was inflicted. For this act of ingratitude no good 
excuse has ever been given. 

Under James I., Bacon was raised "thrice in dignity 
and six times in office." His dignities were: Knight, 
1603; Baron Verulam of Verulam, 1618; Viscount St. 
Alban, 1620. His two highest offices were: Lord- 
keeper, 1617; Lord Chancellor, 1618. His income after 
his promotion was about £2,400 per annum. 

Bacon was seriously deficient in moral sensibility. In 
his political life, he degraded himself, and injured his 
country and posterity by tarnishing the honorable tradi- 
tions of the bench. He shook the faith of human kind 
in human nature by making himself an ever memorable 
warning of the compatibility of greatness and weakness. 
In 1 62 1 there were twenty-three specific acts of corrup- 
tion charged against him, to all of which he pleaded 
guilty, saying to the judges: "I beseech your lordships 
to be merciful to a broken reed." His principal offense 
was the taking of presents from persons who had suits 
in his. court, in some cases while the suits were still pend- 



96 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

ing. He was sentenced to pay a fine of £40,000; to be 
imprisoned in the Tower during the king's pleasure; to 
be forever incapable of sitting in parliament or holding 
office in the state. The king remitted his fine and im- 
prisonment. Bacon admitted the justice of his sentence, 
but always denied that he had been an unjust judge. The 
life of the fallen minister was prolonged for five years 
after his disgrace. In spite of his misfortunes and of his 
pecuniary embarrassments, these were his most fruitful 
years. By a slight exposure he was chilled and thrown 
into a sudden fever, which ended fatally in 1626. 

Although he was a voluminous writer, Bacon's literary 
work is largely fragmentary. His two greatest works are 
the "Essays" and the "Novum Organum." In the "Novum 
Organum" he explains the inductive method of reason- 
ing, and dwells on the necessity of experiments in the 
study of natural science. From this the appellation of 
Baconian method came to be used for the method of 
induction, but this method far from being new was pointed 
out by Aristotle and applied extensively by Roger Bacon, 
Copernicus, Galileo and many other modern philoso- 
phers. Fond as Bacon was of experiments, he made and 
multiplied them to little profit, and left no important con- 
tribution to any branch of physical science. 

As specimens of intellectual activity, of original think- 
ing, and aptness of illustration, the "Essays" surpass any 
other writing of equal extent in our literature. Hallam 
says: "Few books are more quoted, and it would be 
somewhat derogatory to a man of the slightest claim to 
polite letters were he unacquainted with the 'Essays' of 
Bacon. They illustrate the author's comprehensive mind 
and his wonderful power of condensing thought. In his 
style there is that same quality which is applauded in 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 97 

Shakespeare — a combination of the intellectual and imag- 
inative, the closest reasoning in the boldest metaphor. 
Many of his 'Essays,' as the inimitable one on 'Studies,' 
are absolutely oppressive from the power of thought 
compressed into the smallest possible compass." 

OF STUDIES. ESSAY L. 

Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. 
Their chief use for delight is in privateness and retiring; for 
ornament, is in discourse; and for ability, is in the judgment 
and disposition of business; for, expert men can execute, and 
perhaps judge of particulars, one by one; but the general coun- 
sels, and the plots and marshaling of affairs come best from 
those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies is 
sloth; to use them too much for ornament is affectation; to 
make judgment wholly by their rules is the humor of the 
scholar. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, 
and wise men use them, for they teach not their own use; but 
that is a wisdom without them, and above them, won by ob- 
servation. 

Read not to contradict and confute, not to believe and take 
for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and 
consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, 
and some few to be chewed and digested — that is, some books 
are to be read only in parts; others to be read but not curious- 
ly; and some few to be read wholly, #nd with diligence and at- 
tention. Some books also may be read by deputy, and ex- 
tracts made of them by others; but that would be only in the 
less important arguments, and the meaner sort of books; else 
distilled books are like common distilled waters, flashy things. 
Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and 
writing an exact man; and, therefore, if a man write little, 
he had need have a great memory; if he confer little, he 
had need have a present wit; and if be read little, he had 
need have much cunning to seem to know that he doth not. 



98 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Ben Jonson (1573=1637). 

"Ben Jonson possessed all the learning that was wanting 
to Shakespeare, and wanted all the genius which the other 
possessed." — David Hume. 

"Many were the wit combats betwixt him (Shakespeare) 
and Ben Jonson; which two I beheld like a Spanish great 
galleon and an English man-of-war; Master Jonson, like 
the former, was built for higher learning; solid, but slow in 
his performances. Shakespeare, with the English man-of- 
war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with 
all tides, tack about, <and take advantage of all winds by the 
quickness of his wit and invention." — Thomas Fuller. 

Ben Jonson, the contemporary and friend of Shakes- 
peare, was born in London in 1573, and died there in 
1637. Although compelled by his step-father to follow 
the trade of brick-layer, he succeeded in making himself 
one of the most learned men of the age. He entered the 
army and served a campaign in Flanders, where he dis- 
tinguished himself by his courage. We next find him, at 
the age of twenty, an actor in one of the minor theatres. 
Personally unattractive, his success as a theatrical per- 
former was not great. Having killed a fellow-actor in a 
duel, he was imprisoned for murder, and, to use his own 
words, he "was brought near the gallows." . 

It is not known when he began to write, but "Every 
Man in his Humor" was popular in 1596. At first it was 
a failure, but Shakespeare, then at the height of his popu- 
larity, suggested changes in the play and secured its 
acceptance by the managers of Blackfriars. Thus was 
laid the foundation of that sincere and enduring attach- 
ment between the two poets. The zenith of Jonson's 
prosperity was reached between 1603 and 1616. In 1616 
he received the office of laureate, with an annual pension 
of one hundred marks. The following year his wife died; 
most of his children died young, and none survived him. 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 99 

His last years were spent in poverty and neglect, owing to 
his ill-health, his improvidence, and the revengeful dis- 
position of some powerful enemies. He died in 1637, 
regretting the occasional irreverences of his pen, and 
deploring the frequent abuse of powers which were given 
for nobler ends. He was buried in an upright posture 
in the Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey. Above his 
grave a plain stone bears the words, "O, rare Ben Jon- 
son!" The following poem, written late in life, gives us 
an insight into his real nature 

Hear me. God! 

A broken heart 

Is my best part; 
Use still Thy rod, 

That I may prove 

Therein Thy love. 

If Thou hadst not 

Been stern to me, 

But left me free, 
I had forgot 

Myself and Thee. 

For sin's so sweet, 

As minds ill bent 

Rarely repent, 
Until they meet 

Their punishment. 

In person Jonson was large and fleshy, and of fair 
complexion, but a scrofulous affection had scarred his 
face. In manners he was boisterous, dictatorial and 
egotistical ; but he was also warm-hearted. His memory 
was remarkable ; at the age of forty he could repeat every- 
thing he had ever written. He was an excellent reader 
of character, and his knowledge of human nature was 



100 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

profound. His faults were the typical faults of the con- 
ceited man; he was egotistical, self-willed and overbear- 
ing, but he was at the same time frank, generous and 
truly upright. 

His dramatic works range from excellence to medi- 
ocrity. His best dramas are the "Alchemist," "Epicene" 
and "Volpone," but these are marred by many gross 
features. He -wrote only two tragedies, "Sejanus" and 
"Catiline," both severely classical. The last appearance 
of Shakespeare as an actor was in "Sejanus," in 1603. 
As a writer of Masques, composed for the amusement of 
the king and the great nobles, he is without an equal. 
These are about thirty in number and are remarkable for 
their graceful eloquence. Among the most beautiful are 
the "Masque of Oberon" and the "Masque of Queens." 
"The Sad Shepherd," a fragment of a pastoral drama — 
his last work — is unquestionably the best of his plays; 
it was written in 1637. The profound sorrow of Egla- 
mour, the sad shepherd, when he finds his Earine to be 
drowned, has never been surpassed in literature. 

Eglamour. — A spring now she is dead! of what? of 
thorns, 
Briars and brambles? thistles, burs and docks? 
Cold hemlock, yew? the mandrake or the box? 
These may grow still; but what can spring beside? 
Did not the whole earth sicken when she died? 
As if there since did fall one drop of dew, 
But what was wept for her! or any stalk 
Did bear a flower, or any branch a bloom, 
After her wreath was made! In faith, in faith, 
You do not fair to put these things upon me 
Which can in no sort be; Earine, 
Who had her very being, and her name, 
With the first knots or buddings of the spring, 
Born with the primrose, or the violet, 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 101 

Or earliest roses blown; when Cupid smiled; 

And Venus led the Graces out to dance. 

And all the flowers and sweets in nature's lap 

Leaped out and made their solemn conjuration 

To last but while she lived! Do not I know 

How the vale withered the same day? how Dove, 

Dean, Eye and Erwash, Idel, Sinte and Soare, 

Each broke his urn, and twenty waters more, 

That swelled proud Trent, shrunk themselves dry? that 

since 
No sun or moon, or other cheerful star, 
Looked out of heaven, but all the cope was dark, 
As it were hung so for her exequies! 
And not a voice or sound to ring her knell, 
But of that dismal pair, the screeching owl, 
And buzzing hornet! Hark! hark! hark! the foul 
Bird! how she flutters with her wicker wings! 

Robert Southwell (1562=1595). 

"In the poems of Southwell there is a liberal use of trope, 
metaphor, similitude, and all such poetic devices; but the 
deep, strong, loving heart beneath sanctifies and excuses the 
extravagance, if any there be, in the language." — Thomas 
Arnold. 

"Southwell shows in his poetry great simplicity and ele- 
gance of thought and still greater purity of language. He has 
been compared to Goldsmith, and the comparison seems not 
unjust." — Angus. 

Chief among the writers of religious poetry stands 
Robert Southwell. He was born at Horsham, St. Faith's, 
Norfolk, in 1560, of an ancient and wealthy Catholic 
family. While still very young he was sent to the English 
college at Douay, where his amiable disposition and gen- 
tle manners won him every heart. In 1578 he entered the 
Society of Jesus at Rome, and was ordained priest in 
1584. At his request the perilous duty of the English 
mission was assigned to him, and while faithfully dis- 
charging his sacred office he was apprehended by an agent 



102 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

of Queen Elizabeth. For three years he was kept in a 
loathsome prison, and he led a life as horrible as cruel 
confinement, want and filth, and torture beyond descrip- 
tion could make it. Repeatedly the parents of Father 
Southwell begged that he might be brought to trial, even 
that he might be put to death rather than endure longer 
the barbarous treatment to which he was daily subject, 
but all was useless. Their entire fortune was wrecked in 
their ceaseless endeavor to procure relief for their saintly 
son, but their efforts seemed to add to his misery, and he 
was finally executed at Tyburn in 1595. "This whole pro- 
ceeding," says C. D. Cleveland, who surely cannot be 
accused of any sympathy with Catholics, "should cover 
the authors of it with everlasting infamy. There was 
not a particle of evidence at his trial that this pious and 
accomplished poet meditated any evil designs against the 
government." 

Conscious that he suffered in the holiest of causes, 
Father Southwell met death with calm heroism. His 
works, although written while he was in the Tower, bear 
not the faintest trace of angry feeling against any human 
being or against any institution. Only a true poet's soul, 
under the circumstances, could have found expression in 
songs whose perfect moral beauty bear no trace of re- 
pining at his cruel fate, but express the sentiments of a 
heart too full of love of God to have room for malice 
towards his persecutors. The constant themes of both 
his prose and verse are life's uncertainty and the world's 
vanity, the crimes and follies of humanity, the consola- 
tions and glories of religion. 

We have from his classic pen fifty-five beautiful poems. 
They were very popular in his time, as many as eleven 
editions having been published between 1593 and 1600. 




ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 103 

Ben Jonson has expressed his admiration of Southwell, 
and praised the "Burning Babe" as a poem of great 
beauty. The prose of Southwell is not less charming than 
his poetry. The "Triumph of Death," written on the 
character of Lady Sackville, and "Mary Magdalen's 
Funeral Tears" are among his best prose pieces. South- 
well was the founder of the modern English style of re- 
ligious poetry; his influence and example are evident in 
the works of Crashaw, Donne, Herbert, Waller, or any 
of those whose devout lyrics were admired in later times. 
Chaucer had, it is true, shown in the poem called his "A, 
B, C," in honor of the Blessed Virgin, how much the 
English tongue was capable of in this direction, but the 
language was now greatly altered; and Chaucer, though 
admired, was looked upon as no subject for direct imita- 
tion. The poets of the time were much more solicitous 
to write like Ovid than like Isaiah. We may admit the 
truth of Southwell's general censure, that — 

"In lieu of solemn and devout matters, to which in duty 
they owe their abilities, they now busy themselves in express- 
ing such passions as serve only for testimonies to what un- 
worthy affections they have wedded their wills. And he- 
cause the best course to let them see the error of their works 
is to weave a new web in their own loom, I have laid a few 
coarse threads together, to invite some skilfuller wits to go . 
forward in the same, or to begin some finer piece, wherein it 
may be seen how well verse and virtue suit together." 

TIME GOES BY TURNS. 

The lopped tree in time may grow again, 
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; 

The sorriest wight may find release of pain, 

The driest soil suck in some moistening shower. 

Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, 

From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. 



104 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow; 

She draws her favors to the lowest ebb. 
Her tides have equal times to come and go; 

Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web. 
No joy so great but runneth to an end, 
No hap so hard but may in fine amend. 

Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring; 

Not endless night, yet not eternal day; 
The saddest birds a season find to sing; 

The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. 
Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all, 
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. 

A chance may win that by mischance was lost, 
That net that holds no great, takes little fish; 

In some things all, in all things none are crossed; 
Few all they need, but none have aH they wish. 

Unmingled joys here to no man befall; 

Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all. 



PROSE WRITERS. 

Sir Philip Sidney (1554=1586) was the most conspicuous 
courtier of Elizabeth's famous court; for he was hand- 
some, skillful in all manly games, an accomplished scholar, 
and a generous, noble-hearted man. At the battle, or 
skirmish rather, of Zutphen in Holland, in October, 1586, 
having given a portion of his armor to a fellow officer, he 
was wounded in the thigh by a musket ball. "As he lay 
dying, they brought to him a cup of water. Just as he 
lifted the cup to his lips, he caught the wistful glance of a 
wounded soldier near by, and exclaimed: 'Give it to 
him. His need is greater than mine.' " He wrote "Ar- 
cadia," a prose romance; ''Defense of Poesy," and some 
beautiful sonnets. 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 105 

Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame, 

Who seek, who hope, who love, who live, but thee; 

Thine eyes my pride, thy lips mine history; 

If thou praise not, all other praise is shame. 

Nor so ambitious am I as to frame 

A nest for my young praise in laurel tree. 

In truth, I swear I wish not there should be 

Graved in my epitaph a poet's name. 

Nor, if I would, could I just title make, 

That any laud thereof to me should grow, 

Without my plumes from others' Wings I take: 

For nothing from my wit or will doth flow, 

Since all my words thy beauty doth endite, 

And love doth hold my hand, and makes me write. 

Sir Walter Raleigh (1552=1618) was a navigator, sol- 
dier, politician, historian, and poet. His spirit of adven- 
ture led him to France and to the Low Countries, and 
later to America. Here he discovered Virginia, which 
he thus called in honor of the queen. With the acces- 
sion of James I. his misfortunes began. He was unjustly 
charged with treason, was tried, anti sentenced to the 
Tower, where he was imprisoned for thirteen years. Dur- 
ing his imprisonment he wrote his "History of the World," 
and by that work won literary fame. He was released 
from prison on promising to open a gold mine in the 
Xew World, but his expedition was unfortunate. One 
of his exploits enraged the Spanish court, and to appease 
the wrath of the Spaniards, Raleigh was seized upon his 
return to England, and executed under the old sentence 
of fifteen years' standing. When he was brought to the 
block, he lifted the axe of the executioner and ran his 
fingers along the keen edge, smiling as he said: "This is 
a sharp medicine, but it will cure all diseases." 



106 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Robert Burton (1576=1640) is the learned author of 
"The Anatomy of Melancholy," a medley of curious quo- 
tations and pleasing anecdotes. Dr. Johnson said of it 
that it was the only book that ever took him out of bed 
two hours sooner than he wished to rise. 

John Lyly (1553=1601) won his reputation by a work 
styled "Euphues; the Anatomy of Wit." His writings 
exhibit genius, though strongly tinctured with affecta- 
tion, with which he infected the language of conversation 
and even of literature. A specimen of euphuism may be 
found in the language of Sir Piercie Shafton in Scott's 
novel, "The Monastery." 

Nicholas Sander (1527=1581) was at one time Regius 
Professor of Canon Law in the University of Oxford. 
After his ordination, official duties caused him to visit 
Trent, Louvain, and various places in Spain. In 1579, 
he was sent as Papal Nuncio to Ireland, where he was 
starved to death in 1581. His principal work was "The 
Rise and Growth of the Anglican Schism." This excited 
the greatest interest throughout Europe, except in Eng- 
land, where the defenders of the Reformation resorted to 
base calumnies in order to destroy its authority. In 1863, 
the Saturday Review, an English periodical conducted by 
rationalists, declared that Sander's facts were all sup- 
ported by the original papers of the sixteenth century. 

OTHER AUTHORS OF THIS AGE. 

NON-DRAMATIC POETS. 

Michael Drayton (1553=1631) is best known by his work 
entitled "Polyolbion." This is a- poetical ramble over 
England and Wales and is unique in literature. The poet 



ELIZABETHAN PERIOD. 107 

in thirty thousand lines describes enthusiastically, but with 
painful accuracy, the rivers, mountains and forests of his 
country, giving also detailed accounts of local legends 
and antiquities. 

George Herbert (1583=1632) was known as "Holy 
George Herbert" He spent his short life in the discharge 
of his professional duties and the composition of two re- 
ligious works: "The Parson," in which he describes the 
duties of a pastor, and "The Church," a series of poems 
distinguished for energy of thought, conciseness of dic- 
tion, and spiritual unction. 

Thomas Sackville (1536=1608), Earl of Dorset, was one 
of the judicial tribunal that pronounced the doom of Mary 
Stuart; and the Parliament, after having confirmed the 
sentence, commissioned him to bear the sad news to the 
unfortunate queen. His principal works are, his tragedy, 
"Gorboduc," and a poem entitled "Mirror for Magis- 
trates." 

DRAMATIC POETS. 

Christopher Marlowe (1564=1593) is the greatest 
English dramatist that preceded Shakespeare. He had 
a splendid education, but his nature was so impetuous 
that the inherited coarseness of his disposition soon con- 
trolled the better instincts of his wonderful genius. He 
is a poet of unbridled passion and despair. His chief 
works are, "Tamburlaine, the Great," the "Jew of Malta," 
the "Tragical History of Dr. Faustus" and "Edward the 
Second." The impression is general that Shakespeare 
was indebted to the "J ew of Malta" for his ''Merchant of 
Venice;" but there is no resemblance whatever between 
the two plays either in plot or character. Barabas, the 
Jew, is a horrible monstrosity, while Shylock never ceases 
to be a man. 



108 LESSONS IN LITERATURE 

Francis Beaumont (1586=1616) and John Fletcher 
(1576-1625) were popular writers in their time. They 
formed a literary partnership, which was continued for 
ten years. They wrote thirty-seven plays, ten of which 
were tragedies; but all without exception contain coarse 
and obscene passages. In rank they probably deserve a 
place next to Marlowe. 

Philip Massinger (1584=1640) wrote many plays, of 
which eighteen have survived. One only, "A New Way 
to Pay Old Debts," containing the famous character of 
Sir Giles Overreach, still keeps the stage. At the close 
of a life of poverty, he died in obscurity, and in the notice 
of his death the parish register names him, "Philip Mas- 
singer, a stranger." 




CHAPTER III. 

CIVIL WAR PERIOD (1625—1700.) 

This was a period of fierce political and religious con- 
troversy. It witnessed the trial and execution of Charles 
I., the wars of the Cavaliers and Roundheads, the rise 
and fall of the Commonwealth and Protectorate, the 
Restoration of the Stuarts, and the great Revolution of 
1688 which resulted in the banishment of James II. and 
the enthronement of William and Mary. The entire cen- 
tury was one of change and transition, hence it was not 
favorable to authorship. 

The union of Scotland and England was peacefully ac- 
complished when James VI. of Scotland became James I. 
of England. This first Stuart king had few qualities of a 
ruler; he was obstinate, conceited, pedantic, weak, mean- 
looking in person, ungainly in manners, and so timorous 
as to shudder at a drawn sword. The Catholics naturally 
expected toleration from Mary. Stuart's son, but they were 
persecuted more bitterly than ever. In his reign the 
Church of England branched into the "High Church 
party" and the "Puritan party." The Puritan influence, 
stimulated by the persecutions of James L, although it was 
distasteful to a majority of the people, became more and 
more aggressive. In 1576, the influence was barely strong 
enough to compel the building of Blackfriars theater out- 
side of the city walls; in 1643 ft was strong enough to 
close every theater in the kingdom, and to bury in tem- 
porary oblivion our best and noblest literature. 



110 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Charles I. succeeded to a kingdom divided against 
itself; Parliament and the king were still in conflict. At 
this time the royalists received the name of Cavaliers 
from their skill in riding, and the parliamentarians were 
called Roundheads from the Puritan fashion of wearing 
closely-cut hair. The strife between the two factions 
became more bitter; civil war became inevitable. Oliver 
Cromwell's military genius secured the triumph of the 
Roundheads; Charles I. was captured, tried for treason 
and condemned to death. England was now governed 
without kings or lords, authority being vested in the 
diminished House of Commons; Puritan rule was 
supreme. The condition of affairs that then ensued seems 
incredible; it was like a change from the bright sunlight 
to the gloom of a funereal vault. With the suppression 
of all forms of innocent amusement, life became somber 
and moody, all human surroundings were made unnat- 
ural. An intense but misguided religious zeal animated 
the party in power. Some parents named their children 
after the great heroes of the Old Testament, and some 
used scriptural sayings for the same purpose. The name 
of the leader of Cromwell's first Parliament was Praise 
God Barebones. 

The despotic rule of Cromwell paved the way for the 
restoration of the monarchy, and in 1660 Charles II. 
was invited to the throne of his ancestors. Although the 
people with other surroundings would probably have 
preferred the continuance of the Commonwealth, they 
hailed the restoration of a Stuart king with a tumult of 
joy. The Puritans had overshot the mark, and, in con- 
sequence, doomed England to the most frivolous reign 
the country had ever experienced. From Puritan auster- 
ity the people now rushed to the opposite extreme of 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. ill 

levity; the effect of such a revolution was immediate and 
fearful; the nation plunged into excesses. 

The brother of Charles II., James II., the last Catholic 
king of England, came to the throne without opposition. 
His attempts to relieve Catholics from the many disabili- 
ties under which they labored, were made with the indis- 
cretion habitual to his family, and in vain the Pope coun- 
seled moderation. The revolution of 1688 was brought 
about, which resulted in the banishment of James II. and 
the enthronement of William and Mary. 

John Milton (1608=1674). 

"The first place among our English poets is due to Milton." 
— Addison. 

"The old blind poet hath published a tedious poem on the 
Fall of Man. If its length be not considered as a merit it hath 
no other." — Waller. 

"Was there ever anything so delightful as the music of 
'Paradise Lost'? It is like that of a fine organ; has the fullest 
and the deepest tones of majesty, with all the softness and ele- 
gance of the Dorian flute; variety without end, and never 
equaled unless perhaps by Virgil." — Cowper. 

John Milton, the greatest of English poets since Shake- 
speare, was born in 1608 and died in 1674. From child- 
hood he seems to have been conscious of superior powers ; 
and throughout his career, circumstances combined to 
develop his peculiar genius. His first teacher, Thomas 
Young, must have done much toward giving him correct 
habits of study, for when he went to St. Paul's school, 
at the age of twelve, he was soon able to write good 
Latin and Greek verses. At the age of sixteen years he 
was admitted to Christ's College, Cambridge, and after 
eight years left the college, familiar with not only music, 
mathematics, theology and philosophy, but also with 
Latin, Greek, Hebrew, French, Italian and Spanish. Thus 



112 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

the future embodiment of Puritanism was as fine a scholar 
as England ever produced. The five years succeeding 
his university career he spent at his father's country-seat 
in Horton, a village in Buckinghamshire. Here he dis- 
ciplined his mind with mathematics and the sciences, and 
stored his memory with classical literature. Here also 
he indulged his passionate fondness for music — a fond- 
ness to which the invariably melodious structure of his 
verse, and the majestic harmony of his prose style, bear 
constant testimony. The chief productions of this stu- 
dious-retirement were "L' Allegro/' an ode to mirth; "II 
Penseroso," an ode to melancholy; "Comus," a masque; 
the "Arcades;" and "Lycidas," a monody on the death 
of a friend. 

For a period of fifteen months during the years 1638 
and 1639, ne traveled on the continent, visiting the prin- 
cipal cities of France, Italy, and Switzerland. He seems 
to have made acquaintance with men who were most 
illustrious for genius and learning; he visited Galileo at 
Florence, Grotius at Paris, and the Marquis of Villa at 
Naples. After his return to England, he devoted the ten 
following years to teaching boys, for "with Milton, as 
with the whole Calvinistic and Puritan Europe, woman 
was a creature of an inferior and subordinate class." 

At the request of Charles IT, then an exile in France, 
Salmasius, an eminent scholar, published a powerful pam- 
phlet in Latin, maintaining the divine right of kings. 
The Council commanded Milton to undertake a reply. 
Accordingly he prepared his "Defensio pro Populo Angli- 
cano." He was adjudged the superior, and received public 
thanks for the victory won. It is said that the death of 
Salmasius was hastened by the humiliation of defeat 
Loss of sight had menaced Milton for years, and after 




JOHN MILTON. 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 115 

his work on the preparation of his argument he became 
hopelessly blind. 

Dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, 

Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse, 

Without all hope of day! "Samson Agonistes." 

After the Restoration, new troubles came upon him; 
for through tracts and letters he had opposed to the last 
the return of monarchy. A proclamation was issued 
against him, his books were burned by the hangman, and 
he was forced to live in concealment until the general 
act of indemnity was passed. From that time until his 
death he lived in retirement, resuming his poetical work, 
which he had practically abandoned in 1637, with the pub- 
lication of "Lycidas." 

In 1643 ne married Mary Powell, but the gloom of her 
new home became unbearable to her, and she returned 
to her father's house. The estrangement continued for 
two years, when his friends effected a reconciliation. In 
1654 his wife died, leaving three daughters, the eldest only 
eight years old. By his two subsequent marriages, Milton 
had no children. His last wife survived him for more 
than half a century." 

His great epic, "Paradise Lost," was published in 1667. 
"Paradise Regained," which is little more than an ordinary 
paraphrase of the temptation of Christ as found in the 
Gospel; and "Samson Agonistes," a dramatic poem on 
the capture and death of Samson, were published in 1670. 
On the 8th of November, 1674, Milton died. He was 
buried in the church of St. Giles, in the west-central part 
of London, a few squares south of where the British 
Museum now stands. 

Although we know much about Milton, we do not 



116 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

know him. In manner he was austere, even to coldness. 
He lived in almost complete isolation after his return from 
Italy, having little or no intercourse with politicians or 
scholars. His imagination was defective in that warmth 
which could create a bond of sympathy between him and 
other men. Hence he could not, like Shakespeare, por- 
tray natural affections. His intellect predominated over 
his imagination. As a thinker he probably stands next to 
Shakespeare and Bacon. He was neither practical nor 
urbane; he was aggressive, formed for strife, not hap- 
piness. 

In his early poems Milton is remarkable for beauty 
and perfection of rhythm. The blank verse of "Comus" 
is unexcelled. His best prose work is, perhaps, the "Areo- 
pagitica," a strong plea for the freedom of the press, 
although this work lacks the intensity of thought found 
in his controversial pamphlets. 'Taradise Lost" has for 
a long time been considered his best poetical work, but 
the opinion seems to be growing that "Comus" is his 
best, while the other is his greatest. "Comus" contains 
the richest fruit of Milton's poetic fancy, while "Paradise 
Lost" was written after youthful fervor had been dead 
for many years. There are passages of grandeur scat- 
tered through the poem, but in spite of all our literary 
pride, it is dull and uninteresting as a whole. Few have 
ever read it all, save as a task. The first two books are 
by far the best. The following is a synopsis of the poem: 

Book I. After the proposition of the subject, — the Fall 
of Man — and a sublime invocation, the council of Satan 
and the infernal angels is described. Their determina- 
tion to oppose the designs of God in the creation of the 
earth and the innocence of our first parents is then stated, 
and the book closes with a description of the erection 
of Pandemonium, the palace of Satan. Book II. records 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 117 

the debates of the evil spirits, the consent of Satan to 
undertake the enterprise of temptation, his journey to 
the Gates of Hell, which he finds guarded by Sin and 
Death. Book III. transports us to Heaven, where, after 
a dialogue between God the Father and God the Son, 
the latter offers himself as a propitiation for the foreseen 
disobedience of Adam. Book IV. brings Satan to the 
sight of Paradise, and contains the picture of the inno- 
cence and happiness of Adam and Eve. The angels set 
a guard over Eden, and Satan is arrested while endeavor- 
ing to tempt Eve in a dream. He is allowed to escape. 
In Book V., Eve relates her dream to Adam, who com- 
forts her. They are visited by the angel Raphael, sent 
to warn them; and he relates to Adam the story of the 
revolt of Satan and the disobedient angels. In Book VI. 
the narrative of Raphael is continued. Book VII. is de- 
voted to the account of the creation of the world, given 
by the angel Raphael, at Adam's request. In Book VIII. 
Adam describes to the angel his own state and recollec- 
tions, his meeting with Eve and their union. The action 
of Book IX. is the temptation first of Eve, and then 
through her, of Adam. Book X. contains the judgment 
and sentence of Adam and Eve. Book XL relates the 
acceptance of Adam's repentance by the Almighty, Who, 
however, commands that Adam be expelled from Para- 
dise. Eve laments her exile from Eden. Book XII. 
contains the prophetic picture of the fate of the human 
race from the Flood; this picture is shown to Adam by 
the archangel Michael. Adam is comforted by the ac- 
count of the redemption of man, and by the destinies of 
the church. The poem terminates with the wandering 
forth of our first parents from Paradise. 

Although the solemnity of the poem should cause 
weariness, it cannot but leave a vivid impression on all 
minds susceptible to fine influences. The stately march of 
its diction; the organ-peal with which its versification 
rolls on ; the beautiful illustrations from nature and from 
art; the brightly colored pictures of innocence and happi- 



118 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

ness — these give to the mind images and feelings not 
soon effaced. In alluding to the blending of the simple 
scriptural story with images in "Paradise Lost," Lamartine 
pronounces the poem "the dream of a Puritan who has 
fallen asleep over the first pages of the Bible." In studying 
the epic as a sacred poem we are impressed by a want 
of awe and reserve in the handling of religious mysteries. 
There is heroic grandeur in the Miltonic Satan which wins 
human sympathy. This is wrong, for the representation 
of the devil should be without any tinge of good, as the 
representation of God should be free from any tinge of 
evil. From a religious point of view the work is marred 
by its Arianism. Like Arius, Milton denies our Savior's 
equality with His Father, and consequently denies the 
efficacy of the atonement for the sins of man. But we say 
of this poem what Macaulay says of Milton's "Essay on 
the Doctrine of Christianity": "The book, were it far 
more orthodox or far more heretical than it is, would not 
much edify or corrupt the present generation." 

PARADISE LOST.— BOOK II. 
High on a throne of royal state, which far 
Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, 
Or where the gorgeous East, with richest hand, 
Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold, 
Satan exalted sat, by merit raised 
To that bad eminence: and, from despair 
Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires 
Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue 
Vain war with Heaven, and, by success untaught, 
His proud imagination thus display'd: 

"Powers and Dominions, Deities of Heaven! 
For, since no deep within her gulf can hold 
Immortal vigour, though oppress'd and fallen, 
I give not Heaven for lost. Prom this descent 
Celestial virtues rising will appear 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 119 

More glorious and more dread than from no fall, 

And trust themselves to fear no second fate. 

Me, though just right, and the fix'd laws of Heaven, 

Did first create your Leader, next, free choice, 

With what besides, in council or in fight, 

Hath been achieved of merit, yet this loss, 

Thus far at least recover'd hath much more 

Established in a safe unenvied throne, 

Yielded with full consent. The happier state 

In Heaven, which follows dignity, might draw 

Envy from each inferior: but who here 

Will envy whom the highest place exposes 

Foremost to stand against the Thunderer's aim 

Your bulwark, and condemns the greatest share 

Of endless pain? Where there is then no good 

For which to strive, no strife can grow up there 

From faction; for none sure will claim in Hell 

Precedence — none whose portion is so small 

Of present pain, that with ambitious mind 

Will covet more. With this advantage then 

To union and firm faith and firm accord, 

More than can be in Heaven, we now return 

To claim our just inheritance of old; 

Surer to prosper than prosperity 

Could have assur'd us; and by what best way, 

Whether of open war or covert guile, 

We now debate: who can advise, may speak." 

He ceased; and next him Moloch, scepter'd king, 
Stood up, the strongest and the fiercest spirit 
That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair. 
His trust was with the Eternal to be deem'd 
Equal in strength, and rather than be less 
Car'd not to be at all. With that care lost 
Went all his fear; of God, or Hell, or worse 
He reck'd not, and these words thereafter spake: 

"My sentence is for open war; of wiles, 
More unexpert, I boast not; then let those 
Contrive who need, or when they need, not now. 
For, while they sit contriving, shall the rest, 
Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait 



120 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

The signal to ascend, sit lingering here, 

Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place 

Accept this dark, opprobrious den of shame, 

The prison of his tyranny who reigns 

By our delay? No! let us rather choose, 

Armed with Hell flames and fury, all at once, 

O'er Heaven's high towers to force resistless way, 

Turning our tortures into horrid arms 

Against the Torturer; when, to meet the noise 

Of his almighty engine, he shall hear 

Infernal thunder, and for lightning see 

Black fire and horror shot with equal rage 

Among his angels, and his throne itself 

Mix'd with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire, 

His own invented torments. But perhaps 

The way seems difficult and steep to scale, 

With upright wing against a higher foe. 

Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench. 

Of that forgetful lake benumb not still, 

That in our proper motion we ascend 

Up to our native seat: descent an* fall 

To us is adverse. Who but felt of late, 

When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear 

Insulting, and pursued us through the deep, 

With what compulsion and laborious flight 

We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy then; 

The event is fear'd. Should we again provoke 

Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find 

To our destruction, if there be in Hell 

Fear to be worse destroy'd. What can be worse 

Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemn'd 

In this abhorred deep to utter woe; 

Where pain of unextinguishable fire 

Must exercise us, without hope of end, 

The vassals of his anger, when the scourge 

Inexorably, and the torturing hour, 

Calls us to penance? More destroy'd than thus, 

We should be quite abolish'd and expire. 

What fear we then? What doubt we to incense 

His utmost ire? which, to the height enrag'd 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 121 

"Will either quite consume us and reduce 
To nothing this essential; happier far 
Than miserable to have eternal being: 
Or if our substance be indeed divine, 
And cannot cease to be, we are at worst 
On this side nothing; and by proof we feel 
Our power sufficient to disturb his Heaven, 
And with perpetual inroads to alarm, 
Though inaccessible, his fatal throne; 
Which, if not victory, is yet revenge." 

He endeth frowning and his look denounc'd 
Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous 
To less than gods. * * * * 

He scarce had finish'd, when such murmur fill'd 
The assembly, as when hollow rocks retain 
The sound of blustering wind, which all night long 
Had rous'd the sea, now with hoarse cadence lull 
Seafaring men o'erwatched, whose bark by chance, 
Or pinnace, anchors in a craggy bay 
After the tempest: such applause was heard 
As Mammon ended, and his sentence pleas'd, 
Advising peace; for such another field 
They dreaded worse than Hell: so much the fear 
Of thunder and the sword of Michael 
Wrought still within them; and no less desire 
To found this nether empire, which might rise, 
By policy and long process of time, 
In emulation opposite to Heaven. 
Which, when Beelzebub perceiv'd, than whom, 
Satan except, none higher sat, with grave 
Aspect he rose, and in his rising seemed 
A pillar of state; deep on his front engraven 
Deliberation sat, and public care; 
And princely counsel in his face yet shone, 
Majestic, though in ruin. Sage he stood, 
With Atlantean shoulders fit to bear 
The weight of mightiest monarchies: his* look 
Drew audience and attention still as night 
Or summer's noontide air, while thus he spake: 

"Thrones and Imperial Powers, offspring of Heaven, 



122 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Ethereal Virtues! or these titles now 

Must we renounce, and changing style, be call'd 

Prince of Hell? for so the popular vote 

Inclines, here to continue, and build up here 

A growing empire; doubtless, while we dream, 

And know not that the King of Heaven hath doom'd 

This place our dungeon, not our safe retreat 

Beyond his potent arm, to live exempt 

From Heaven's high jurisdiction, in new league 

Banded against his throne, but to remain 

In strictest bondage, though thus far remov'd 

Under the inevitable curb, reserv'd 

His captive multitude: for he, be sure, 

In heighth or depth, still first and last will reign 

Sole king, and of his kingdom lose no part 

By our revolt, but over Hell extend 

His empire, and with iron sceptre rule 

Us here, as with his golden those in Heaven. 

What sit we then projecting peace and war? 

War hath determin'd us, and foil'd with loss 

Irreparable; terms of peace yet none 

Vouchsaf'd or sought; for what peace will be given 

To us enslav'd, but custody severe, 

And stripes and arbitrary punishment 

Inflicted? and what peace can we return, 

But to our power, hostility and hate, 

Untam'd reluctance, and revenge, though slow, 

Yet ever plotting how the Conqueror least 

May reap his conquest, and may least rejoice 

In doing what we most in suffering feel? 

Nor will occasion want, nor shall we need, 

With dangerous expedition to invade 

Heaven, whose high walls fear no assault or siege, 

Or ambush from the deep. What if we find 

Some easier enterprise? There is a place 

(If ancient and prophetic fame in Heaven 

Err not), another world, the happy seat 

Of some new race call'd Man, about this time 

To be created like to us, though less 

In power and excellence, but favour'd more 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 123 

Of Him who rules above: so was his will 
Pronounc'd among the gods, and by an oath, 
That shook Heaven's whole circumference, confirmed. 
Thither let us tend all our thoughts, to learn 
What creatures there inhabit, of what mould, 
Or substance, how endued, and what their power, 
And where their weakness, how attempted best, 
By force or subtlety. Though Heaven be shut, 
And Heaven's high arbitrator sit secure 
In his own strength, this place may lie expos'd, 
The utmost border of his kingdom, left 
To their defence who hold it. Here perhaps 
Some advantageous act may be achiev'd 
By sudden onset, either with Hell fire 
To waste his whole creation, or possess 
All as our own, and drive, as we were driven, 
The puny inhabitants; or, if not drive, 
Seduce them to our party, that their God 
May prove their foe, and with repenting hand 
Abolish his own works. This would surpass 
Common revenge, and interrupt his joy 
In our confusion, and our joy upraise 
In his disturbance; when his darling sons, 
Hurl'd headlong to partake with us, shall curse 
Their frail original, and faded bliss, 
Faded so soon. Advise, if this be worth 
Attempting, or to sit in darkness here 
Hatching vain empires." Thus Beelzebub 
Pleaded his devilish counsel, first devis'd 
By Satan, and in part propos'd; for whence, 
But from the author of all ill, could spring 
So deep a malice, to confound the race 
Of mankind in one root, and earth with Hell 
To mingle and involve, done all to spite 
The great Creator? But their spite still serves 
His glory to augment. The bold design 
Pleas'd highly those infernal States, and joy 
Sparkl'd in all their eyes. With full assent 
They vote; whereat his speech he thus renews: 
"Well have ye judg'd, well ended long debate, 



124 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Synod of gods! and, like to what ye are, 

Great things resolv'd, which from the lowest deep 

Will once more lift us up, in spite of fate, 

Nearer our ancient seat; perhaps in view 

Of those bright confines, whence, with neighboring arms • 

And opportune excursion, we may chance 

Re-enter Heaven; or else in some mild zone 

Dwell, not unvisited of Heaven's fair light, 

Secure, and at the brightening orient beam 

Purge off this gloom: the soft, delicious air, 

To heal the scar of these corrosive fires, 

Shall breathe her balm. But first, whom shall we send 

In search of this new world? Whom shall we find 

Sufficient? Who shall tempt with wandering feet 

The dark, unbottom'd, infinite abyss, 

Out through the palpable obscure find out 

His uncouth way, or spread his airy flight, 

Upborne with indefatigable wings, 

Over the vast abrupt, ere he arrive 

The happy isle? What strength, what art can then 

Suffice, or what evasion bear him safe 

Through the strict sentries and stations thick 

Of angels watching round? Here he had need 

All circumspection, and we now no less 

Choice in our suffrage; for, on whom we send, 

The weight of all, and our last hope, relies." 

******* 

Foreign Contemporaries.— English literature during 
the Commonwealth was largely exclusive in its character. 
Although there was great literary activity at the time, 
it did not harmonize with the stern influences then domi- 
nant. The golden age of French literature had begun. 
It seemed as though art, science, and every effort of 
genius had been exhausted to make the court of Louis 
XIV. one of the grandest spectacles upon which men had 
ever gazed. The most important names on the literary 
roll at this time are those of Corneille, Moliere, and 
Racine. 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 125 

Pierre Corneille was born in Rouen in i6c6, and 
died in Paris in 1684. He is the founder of the classical 
drama in France, "Le Cid" being the first French master- 
piece. Corneille was graduated with high honors from 
the Jesuit College in his native city, studied law, and was 
admitted to the bar in 1624. Voltaire considered "Cinna" 
the most finished of Corneille's tragedies, but the French 
critics preferred "Polyeucte." Dryden referred to the 
"Edipus" as a failure, although the play was popular at 
the time of its production. Corneille's later plays did 
not equal his early ones. His object was not to excite 
compassion but admiration, not only for the heroism of 
virtue but also for the heroism of vice. 

Moliere was the stage name of Jean Baptiste Poque- 
lin, who was born in Paris in 1622 and died there in 
1673. He studied with the Jesuits in Paris, and was one 
of the most brilliant geniuses of all time. When not yet 
twenty years of age, he followed the court to Narbonne, 
on the memorable trip that witnessed the execution of 
Cinq-Mars, and the last victory of Richelieu. Of all dra- 
matists, Moliere is perhaps the one that has borne most 
constantly in mind the theory that the stage is a lay pulpit 
and that its end is not merely amusement but the reforma- 
tion of manners. He is an illustration of the fact that the 
most entertaining portions of literature have been written 
by men bowed down with sorrow, and at moments when 
that sorrow was heaviest, for he depicted upon the stage 
in all the sprightliness of comedy, the very domestic sor- 
rows of which he was the victim. Thirty-one of Moliere's 
dramas remain; his "Precieuses Ridicules," "Misan- 
thrope," and "Tartufe" being considered the best. He 
was a polished versifier, a keen delineator of character, 
and a merciless satirist. 



126 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Jean Baptiste Racine was a celebrated French tragic 
poet, who was born at La Ferte-Milon in 1639, and who 
died at Paris in 1699. His early training in Greek and 
Latin was thorough, and his tastes ran in the direction 
of intellectual pursuits. His friendly relations with La 
Fontaine, Boileau, and Moliere, led him to devote him- 
self to writing for the stage. His first real success as a 
dramatic poet was "Andromaque," which is the initial 
tragedy in a long series of master-pieces; among these 
are "Iphigenie," "Phedre," and "Mithridate." He also 
wrote two plays of great lyric beauty dealing with sub- 
jects from the Bible; they are "Esther" and "Athalie." 
Racine was made a member of the French Academy in 
1673- 

English Contemporaries. 

John Dryden (1631=1700). 

"In argument, satire and declamatory magnificence, he is 
the greatest of our poets." — Craik. 

"The matchless prose of Dryden is rich, various, natural, 
animated, pointed, lending itself to the logical as well as to 
the narrative and picturesque; never balking, never cloying, 
never wearying." — Brougham. 

John Dryden was born at Aldwinckle, Northampton- 
shire, of a good Puritan family; he was educated at 
Trinity College, Cambridge. During the Civil War and 
the Commonwealth, the interests of his friends were iden- 
tified with the Puritan cause, and his association with 
the austere and unpoetical may account for his displaying 
few symptoms of literary precocity. Had the Republican 
rule continued, he might have used his abilities to achieve 
position in the state, without the thought of a poetical 
career, but the Restoration took place just as he was 
ready to enter active life, and as it was necessary for him 




JOHN DRYDEN. 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 129 

to begin the world on his own account, he chose to begin 
it on the winning side. Accordingly he published an ode 
of welcome to the returning king. 

The revival of the drama had just reopened a lucrative 
field, and Dryden found it expedient to devote himself 
principally to the stage. Within the space of thirty years 
he produced twenty-seven plays, the most popular of 
which are "The Indian Emperor" and "The Conquest of 
Granada"; but these dramatic efforts were for the most 
part failures and defiled with licentiousness. In 1667 his 
first narrative poem, "Annus Mirabilis," attracted general 
attention. This poem was written to commemorate the 
Plague, the Fire of London, and the War with the Dutch. 
His next production was equally fortunate; this was an 
elaborate prose "Essay on Dramatic Poetry." His star 
of fortune now rose rapidly. He enjoyed the patronage of 
the king; his income was respectable; he was the oracle 
of scholarly circles; and he took an active part in public 
affairs. His first and best satire, "Absalom and Achito- 
phel," appeared in 1681, and the enthusiasm with which 
it was received confirmed Dryden's poetical supremacy. 
It was written in the interests of the king's party, attack- 
ing the policy of Chancellor Shaftesbury. As an illus- 
tration of Dryden's keen satire, as well as his historical 
portraiture of character, the following description of Achi- 
tophel (Shaftesbury) is given: 

Of these the false Achitophel was first; 
A name to all succeeding ages cursed; 
For close designs and crooked counsels fit; 
Sagacious, bold and turbulent of wit; 
Restless, unfixed in principles and place; 
In power unpleased; impatient of disgrace; 
A fiery soul, which, working out its way, 
Fretted the pigmy body to decay, 



130 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

And o'er-informed the tenement of clay. 

A daring pilot in extremity; 

Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high 

He sought the storms; hut for a calm unfit, 

Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit. 

Great wits are sure to madness near allied, 

And thin partitions do their bounds divide, 

Else, why should he, with wealth and honor blest, 

Refuse his age the needful hours of rest? 

Punish a body which he could not please; 

Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease? 

In friendship false, implacable in hate; 

Resolved to ruin or to rule the state. 

to defend the Church of England against the dissenters, 
yet it evinced a sceptical spirit in regard to revealed 
religion. In 1686 he became a Roman Catholic. The 
good faith of this conversion has often been called in 
question; for it coincided suspiciously with the proselyt- 
ing measures of King James. Many circumstances, how- 
ever, tend to prove its sincerity; he patiently suffered 
deprivation and some persecution on account of his new 
faith, he carefully instructed his children in the doctrines 
of the Catholic Church, and he wrote his "Hind and 
Panther" in sympathy with her reverses. "If," says Sir 
Walter Scott, "we are to judge of Dryden's sincerity in 
his new faith by the determined firmness with which he 
retained it, we must allow him to have been a martyr, or 
at least a confessor in the Catholic cause." 

Macaulay says: "A more complete and just estimate 
of Dryden's natural and acquired powers may be formed 
from the 'Hind and Panther' than from any of his other 
writings." Dryden also published versions of Juvenal and 
Persius, and a still weightier task, his celebrated transla- 
tion of Vergil, published in 1697, which Pope hesitated not 
to characterize as the most noble and spirited translation 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 131 

he knew of in any language. The "Ode to St. Cecilia," 
commonly known as "Alexander's Feast," was his next 
effort. It is the loftiest and most imaginative of his com- 
positions, and one of the noblest lyrics in the English 
language. 

As a brief illustration of Dryden's prose, and of the 
artistic skill with which he could praise a nobleman for 
the favor of accepting a dedication, the following to Lord 
Vaughan will, perhaps, be sufficient: 

"That I have always honored you, I suppose I need not 
tell you at this time of day; for you know I staid not to date 
my respects to you from that title which you now have, and 
to which you bring a greater addition by your merit, than 
you receive from it by the name; but I am proud to let others 
know how long it is that I have been made happy by my 
knowledge of you, because I am sure it will give me a reputa- 
tion with the present age and with posterity. And now, my 
lord, I know you are afraid lest I should take this occasion, 
which lies so fair for me, to acquaint the world with some of 
those excellencies which I have admired in you; but I have 
reasonably considered that to acquaint the world is a phrase 
of a malicious meaning: for it would imply that the world 
were not already acquainted with them. You are so generally 
known to be above the meanness of my praises that you have 
spared my evidence and spoiled my compliment. Should I 
take for my commonplaces your knowledge both of the old 
and the new philosophy, should I add to these your skill in 
mathematics and history; and yet farther, your being con- 
versant with all the ancient authors of the Greek and Latin 
tongues, as well as with the modern, I should tell nothing 
new to mankind; for when I have once but named you, the 
world will anticipate my commendations, and go faster before 
me than I can follow. Be therefore secure, my lord, that your 
own fame has freed itself from the danger of a panegyric, and 
only give me leave to tell you that I value the candor of your 
nature, and that one character of friendliness and, if I may 
have leave to call it, kindness in you, before all those others 
Which make you considerable in the nation," 



132 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Although his comedies show considerable wit, he wrote 
them much against his inclination, and because of the 
public demand for them. There are passages of rare 
beauty to be found in these plays; a few selections only 
are admissible here: 

FROM "OEDIPUS." 

Oedipus. — Thus pleasure never comes sincere to man, 
But lent by Heaven upon hard usury: 
And while Jove holds us out the bowl of joy, 
Ere it can reach our lips it's dashed with gall 
By some left-handed god. 

****** 
When the sun sets, shadows that showed at noon 
But small, appear most long and terrible; 
So when we think Fate hovers o'er our heads, 
Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds. 

Aegoen. — King Polybus is dead. 

Oedipus. — Of no distemper, of no blast he died. 
But fell like autumn fruit that mellowed long; 
Even wondered at because he dropt no sooner. 
Fate seemed to round him up for four-score years, 
Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more, 
Till like a clock, worn out with eating time, 
The wheels of weary life at last stood still. 

FROM "AURENG ZEBE." 

Aureng Zebe. — The world is made for the bold, impious man, 
Who stops at nothing, seizes all he can. 
Justice to merit does weak aid afford, 
But trusts her balance, and neglects her sword. 
Virtue is nice to take what's not her own; 
And, while she long consults, the prize is gone. 
When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat, 
Yet, fooled with hope, men favor the deceit; 
Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay: 
To-morrow's falser than the former day, 
Lies worse, and while it says you shall be blessed 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 133 

With some new joys, cuts off what we possessed. 
Strange cozenage! none would live past years again, 
Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain, 
And from the dregs of life, think to receive 
What the first sprightly running could not give. 

FROM "MARRIAGE A LA MODE." 

Leonidas. — Sir, ask the stars, 
Which have imposed love on us like, a fate, 
Why minds are bent to one, and hy another? 
Ask why all beauties can not move all hearts? 
For though there may 
Be made a rule for color or for feature, 
There can be none for liking. 

Love either finds equality or makes it: 

Like Death, he knows no difference in degrees, 

But plains and levels all. 

FROM "THE HIND AND PANTHER." 

Be vengeance wholly left to powers divine! 

If joys hereafter must be purchased here, 

With loss of all that mortals hold most dear, 

Then, welcome infamy and public shame, 

And last, a long farewell to worldly fame! 

'Tis said with ease, but oh, how hardly tried 

By haughty souls to human honor tied! 

Oh, sharp convulsive pangs of agonizing pride! 

Down, then, thou rebel, never more to rise! 

And what thou didst, and dost, so dearly prize, 

That fame, that darling fame, make that thy sacrifice; 

'Tis nothing thou hast given; then add thy tears 

For a long race of unrepenting years; 

'Tis nothing yet, yet all thou hast to give; 

Then add those may-be years thou hast to live; 

Yet nothing still; then poor and naked come; 

Thy Father will receive his unthrift home, 

And thy blessed Saviour's blood discharge the mighty sum. 



134 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Richard Crashaw (1616=1650). 

"Poet and Saint! to thee alone are given 
The two most sacred names of earth and heaven." — Cowley. 

Richard Crashaw, the son of a London preacher, was 
an eminent religious poet. He was educated at Charter- 
house and at Cambridge, where in 1633 he became a 
fellow of Peterhouse. In 1644 he was expelled from the 
University for not taking the covenant. He became a 
Roman Catholic, and after suffering great hardships from 
poverty in Paris, he was generously aided by his friend 
Cowley. He was appointed one of the canons in the 
Cathedral of Loretto, in Italy; a position which he re- 
tained until his death in 1650. Cowley dedicated to his 
memory one of the most moving and beautiful elegies ever 
written. 

His fondness for quaint conceits has greatly dimmed 
a poetical reputation which force of thought and depth 
of feeling might otherwise have rendered a very high one. 
His works are characterized by energy of thought, luxu- 
riance of imagination, a wealth of diction and noble devo- 
tional fervor. Among his best productions may be men- 
tioned "Steps to the Temple," "Poemata Latina," "Epi- 
grammata Sacra," and "The Delights of the Muses." His 
latest religious poems were published in 1652 and were 
called "Carmen Deo Nostro." In his "Epigrammata 
Sacra" is found the well-known verse relating to the mira- 
cle of Cana. A prize having been offered for the best 
composition on this subject, Crashaw won it by his line: 
Lympha pudica Deum vidit et erubuit. 
The conscious water saw its God and blushed. 

WITH A PRAYER-BOOK. 

It is an armory of light. 

Let constant use but keep it bright, 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 135 

You'll find it yields 
To holy hands and humble hearts 

More words and shields 
Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts. 

EUTHANASIA. 

Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks, beguile 

Age? Wouldst see December smile? 

Wouldst see hosts of new roses grow 

In a bed of reverent snow? 

Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering 

Winter's self into a spring? 

In some wouldst see a man that can 

Live to be old, and still a man? 

Whose latest and most leaden hours 

Fall with soft wings stuck with soft flowers; 

And when life's sweet fable ends, 

Soul and body part like friends; 

No quarrels, murmurs, no delay — 

A kiss, a sigh, and so — away; 

This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see? 

Hark, hither! — and thyself be he. 

ON SAINT TERESA. 

O! thou undaunted daughter of desires, 

By all thy dower of lights and fires; 

By all the eagle in thee, all the dove; 

By all thy lives and deaths of love; 

By thy large draughts of intellectual day: 

And by thy thirsts of love more large than they; 

By all thy brim-filled bowls of fierce desire; 

By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire; 

By all the heavens thou hast in him, 

Fair sister of the seraphim; 

By all of him we have in thee, 

Leave nothing of myself in me. 

Let me so read my life, that I 

Unto all life of mine may die. 



136 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Abraham Cowley (1618=1667). 

"Who now reads Cowley? If he pleases yet, 
His moral pleases, not his pointed wit; 
Forgot his Epic, nay Pindaric art, 
But still I love the language of his heart." 
Abraham Cowley was a remarkable instance of intel- 
lectual precocity; when but a mere child he had a pas- 
sionate admiration for the "Faery Queene," and his first 
poems were published when he was only fifteen years of 
age. He was ejected from both Cambridge and Oxford 
for being a Royalist; then having attached himself to the 
suite of Henrietta Maria, he was employed by her in 
Paris for many years as confidential secretary. When the 
Restoration was accomplished, Charles II. forgot the 
fidelity and self-sacrifice of Cowley, who now retired to 
private life at Chertsey on the Thames. He died in 1667 
from the effects of a severe cold caught while he was 
wandering in the damp fields. 

Cowley possessed a remarkably apprehensive under- 
standing, but a feeble character. One reads a few of his 
minor pieces and is dazzled by the daring flights of his 
imagination; one conceives such a man to be capable of 
the greatest things. Yet it is not so; the hue of his reso- 
lution is "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought." He 
began the "Davideis" at Cambridge with the intention of 
producing a great epic on the sufferings and glories of 
David; but he completed no more than four cantos and 
then gave up the design. It needed a more stern deter- 
mination than his to bring such a work to a successful 
termination. His poetical works are divided into four 
classes: miscellaneous, amatory verses, the "Pindaric 
Odes," and the "Davideis." 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 137 

HER NAME. 

With more than Jewish reverence as yet 

Do I the Sacred Name conceal; 
When, ye kind stars, ah! when will it be fit 

This gentle mystery to reveal? 
When will our love be named, and we possess 
That christening as a badge of happiness? 

So bold as yet no verse of mine has been, 

To wear that gem on any line; 
Nor, till the happy nuptial Muse be seen, 

Shall any stanza with it shine. 
Rest, mighty Name, till then; for thou must be 
Laid down by her, ere taken up by me. 

Then all the fields and woods shall with it ring; 

Then Echo's burden it shall be; 
Then all the birds in several notes shall sing, 

And all the rivers murmur thee; 
Then every wind the sound shall upward bear, 
And softly whisper't to some angel's ear. 

Then shall thy Name through all my verse be spread 

Thick as the flowers in meadows lie; 
And when in future times they shall be read 

(As sure, I think, they will not die), 
If any critic doubt that they be mine, 
Men by that stamp shall quickly know the coin. 

Samuel Butler (1612=1680).— Samuel Butler was the 
son of a Worcestershire farmer, and his early life was 
passed in obscurity. Lack of funds shortened his stay 
at Cambridge, still he was there long enough to acquire 
some of the learning displayed in his works. He was for 
several years a clerk in the office of a country justice, 
and afterwards became a secretary in the service of the> 
Countess of Kent. In these positions he found oppor- 
tunities for study. He lived, for some years in the family 



138 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

of Sir Samuel Luke, one of Cromwell's commanders. In 
this dignitary, Butler saw the most radical type of Puritan 
character, and he exhibited a caricature of Sir Samuel 
in the celebrated Knight Hudibras, the hero of the famous 
poem. 

The name of Hudibras is taken from the old romances 
of chivalry, Sir Hugh de Bras being one of the knights 
of Arthur's Round Table. The poem is a satire upon the 
Puritans, and he subjects them to a ridicule so keen that 
the work still holds an eminent place in the literature 
of satire. It is written, some say, on the model of "Don 
Quixote," but while Cervantes makes his hero laughable 
without impairing our respect for his character, Butler 
invests his personages with the utmost degree of odium 
compatible with the sentiment of the ludicrous. 

Butler's style is concise and suggestive, and although 
no English author was ever more witty than Butler, he 
is utterly destitute of genial humor. His low wit and the 
vulgarity of his language make the reading of this poem 
a task rather than a pleasure, and the reader would gladly 
exchange it for something more dignified and less spark- 
ling. . 

This unfortunate laureate of the Royalists died in 1680 
at a miserable lodging-house in London, not possessing" 
sufficient property to pay his funeral expenses. Forty 
years after his death a monument was erected to his mem- 
ory in Westminster Abbey, and this tardy recognition 
gave rise to one of the keenest epigrams in the language : 
"Whilst Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive, 

No generous patron would a dinner give; 

See him when starved to death and turned to dust, 

Presented with a monumental bust; 

The poet's fate is here in emblem shown: 

He asked for bread and he received a stone." 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 139 

DISTICHS FROM "HUDIBRAS" AND MISCELLANIES. 

Rhyme the rudder is of verses, 

With which like ships they steer their courses. 

In all trade of war no feat 
Is nobler than a brave retreat; 
For those that run away and fly, 
Take place at least of the enemy. 

He that runs may fight again, 
Which he can never do that's slain. 

Night is the Sabbath of mankind 
To rest the body and the mind. 

Money that, like the swords of kings, 
Is the last reason of all things. 

Opinion governs all mankind. 

Like the blind's leading of the blind. 

Loyalty is still the same, 
Whether it win or lose the game; 
True as the dial to the sun, 
Although it be not shined upon. 

Things said false and never meant 
Do oft prove true by accident. 

John Bunyan (1628=1688).— John Bunyan was the 
son of a poor Bedford tinker, and followed his father's 
trade until his eighteenth year. He grew up to manhood 
with an education so meager, that he barely knew how to 
read and write, and yet he produced a work which places 
him foremost among the writers of his class. At the 
solicitation of his wife, he joined the Baptist church of 
Bedford, and often availed himself of his journeyings as 
a tinker, to exercise the vocation of a preacher. In No- 
vember, 1660, he was arrested as a non-conformist, and 
was imprisoned in Bedford jail. Although for a portion 



140 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

of the time his imprisonment was merely nominal, he 
was not formally liberated for twelve years. During- these 
years of confinement he wrote the "Pilgrim's Progress," 
which, next to the Bible, is the work most widely read in 
England. If popularity were the test of excellence, the 
allegory of Bunyan would be ranked above the epic of 
Milton and even above the plays of Shakespeare. 

Bunyan was the author of about sixty works; of these 
the "Pilgrim's Progress" and "The Holy War" are best 
known. Froude says: "Bunyan was a man of natural 
genius who believed the Puritan form of Christianity to 
be completely true. He knew nothing of philosophy, 
nothing of history, nothing of literature." The habit of 
introspection gave him a self-knowledge; that made him 
modest, humble and shrinking; that saved him from 
vanity after he became the head of the Baptist community 
in England; and that prevented him, in spite of his nar- 
row theology, from becoming a fanatic. 

OTHER AUTHORS OF THIS AGE. 

POETS. 

Robert Herrick (1591=1674) was a fine lyric poet, 
but sometimes coarse. He wrote "Cherry Ripe," "Gather 
Rosebuds While Ye May," and other poems. 

Edmund Waller (1605=1687) enjoyed great popular- 
ity. His poems are short, polished and refined, but full 
of extravagant conceits. The "Panegyric to My Lord 
Protector" is his most noted work. 

Willliam Habington (1605=1654) belonged to a 
Catholic family of good standing, and was a pupil of 
the Jesuit College of St. Omer. The Castara of his 



CIVIL WAR PERIOD. 141 

verse is his wife, whose charms he celebrates in the purest 
accents of love. Habington writes like a Christian and 
a gentleman as well as like a poet. 

PROSE WRITERS. 

Izaak Walton (1593=1683) won reputation as a clas- 
sical writer by his popular work, "The Complete Angler." 
He also wrote Lives of Wotton, Herbert and others. 

Sir Thomas Browne (1605=1682) a quaint and pow- 
erful writer, was the author of "Religio Medici," a work 
which at once won distinction both at home and abroad. 

Sir William Davenant (1605=1668) had more fame 
in his time than he has preserved. "Gondibert" is 
the best known of his productions; it is an unfinished 
heroic poem of 6,ooo lines. He succeeded Ben Jonson 
as poet-laureate; and a few years later became a Roman 
Catholic. 

Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, (1608=1673) was a 
statesman of great merit and a writer of uncommon 
ability. He wrote an excellent "History of the Rebellion." 

Thomas Hobbes (1588=1679) was a great philosopher. 
He wrote 'The Leviathan." 

John Locke (1632=1704) was an eminent philosopher 
and one of the most influential thinkers of modern times. 
His chief work is an "Essay Concerning the Human Un- 
derstanding." 

Sir Isaac Newton (1642=1727) the great mathema- 
tician, was author of "The Principia." 

Sir William Temple (1628=1699) was a diplomatist 
and a graceful essayist. 



142 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

John Evelyn, F. R. S., (1620=1706) wrote " Sylva," 
a discourse on forest trees, and "Terra," a work on agri- 
culture. 

Samue! Pepys (1632=1703) left an entertaining and 
important "Diary," which has taken a permanent place 
in literature. 



<£^£^J^3> 



CHAPTER IV. 

EIGHTEENTH CENTURY (1700—1800). 

The eighteenth century saw the wars of the Spanish and 
Austrian succession; the Seven- Years War; the rise of 
Russia and Prussia; the American Revolution; the Par- 
tition of Poland ; and the opening of the French Revolu- 
tion — including the execution of Louis XVI., the Reign 
of Terror, and Bonaparte's Italian and Egyptian cam- 
paigns. 

Queen Anne's reign was the Augustan age of English 
literature. Questions of party politics, society, life and 
character were discussed; and wit, ridicule and satire were 
employed as never before. The influence of the old school 
of authors gave way to correctness of form and taste. 
Pope's "Essay on Man" and "Essay on Criticism" are still 
admired. Addison and Steele in their periodicals, The 
Tattler and The Spectator, popularized literature, and 
"brought philosophy," as Steele expressed it, "out of 
libraries, schools, and colleges, to dwell in clubs, at tea- 
tables, and in coffee-houses." Science now spread rap- 
idly on every side; and the application of steam power 
to machinery wrought a revolution in commerce, manu- 
factures, arts and social life. 

There was a crying need of improvement in almost 
every direction. The law in England recognized two 
hundred and twenty-three capital crimes. For stealing to 
the value of five shillings, for shooting at rabbits, for cut- 
ting down young trees — the penalty was death. Traitors 



144 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

were cut in pieces by the executioner, and their heads 
exposed on Temple Bar to the derision of the passers-by. 
Prisoners were forced to buy their food from the jailer. 
They were allowed to stand chained by the ankles outside 
of the jail to sell articles of their own manufacture. Thus, 
John Bunyan sold cotton lace in front of Bedford jail. 
In 1773, Howard began his philanthropic labors in behalf 
of prison reform, but years elapsed before the evils he 
revealed were corrected. 

A general coarseness existed in society; profanity was 
common. Among the poorer classes, children of five 
years of age were habitually put to work. In mines, 
women and children, crawling on their hands and feet in 
the darkness, dragged wagons of coal fastened to their 
waists by a chain. Military and naval discipline was main- 
tained by the lash, and in the streets of every sea-port, 
the press-gang seized and carried off by force whom it 
pleased to be sailors on the men-of-war. 

London streets were lighted only in winter and until 
midnight by dim oil-lamps. The services of a link-boy 
with his blazing torch were needed to light one home after 
dark. In the country the roads were so bad that winter 
traveling was well-nigh impossible. The stage-coach rat- 
tling along in good weather at the rate of four miles an 
hour was considered a wonderful instance of the progress 
of the times. In all England there were only about 3,000 
schools, public and private, and so late as 1818 half of the 
children grew up destitute of education. 

This eighteenth century was a period of repose in Eng- 
lish political history. During the whole of this period, 
except in the Jacobite risings of 1715 and 1.745, the nation 
enjoyed profound internal peace. This was the time, it 
might have been imagined, for the fructification of what- 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 145 

ever germs of thought the philosophy and poetry of pre- 
ceding ages had implanted. Such, however, was far from 
being the case. The rising of the clans in 1745 divides this 
into two nearly equal portions, of the first of which, Pope 
may be taken as the representative author; of the second, 
Johnson. 

Alexander Pope (1688=1744). 

"Pope's rhymes too often supply the defects of his rea- 
sons." — Whately. 

"The most striking characteristics of his poetry are lucid 
arrangement of matter, closeness of argument, marvellous 
condensation of thought and expression, brilliancy of fancy 
ever supplying the aptest illustrations, and language elabo- 
rately finished almost beyond example." — Alex. Dyce. 

Alexander Pope was born in London of Roman Cath- 
olic parents, in the year 1688. His father, a merchant, 
had acquired sufficient property to retire from business 
and to enjoy the leisure of his rural home near Windsor. 
Pope's physical deformity and feeble health forbade his 
attending the public schools and universities of England; 
his education was therefore privately conducted. During 
his childhood he indulged that taste for study and poetical 
reading that became the passion of his life. Before he 
was twelve years of age he had written an "Ode to Soli- 
tude," displaying a thoughtfulness far beyond his years. 
He states that a Mr. Walsh told him that there was one 
way of excelling left open to him, for though there had 
been many great poets, there was never one great poet 
who had been correct. "He advised me to make this my 
study and aim." Pope followed this advice and at sixteen 
years of age his "Pastorals" bore witness to a correctness, 
which no one, not even Dryden, had possessed. Taine 
says: "When people observed these choice words, these 



146 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

exquisite arrangements of melodious syllables, this science 
of division and rejection, this style so fluent and pure, 
these graceful images rendered still more graceful by the 
diction, and all this artificial and many-tinted garland of 
flowers which Pope called pastoral, they thought of the 
first eclogues of Vergil." In the rounded finish of every 
expression, in the exquisite taste with which a figure is 
set, and the apparent solicitude lest any word should be 
misplaced, we find palpable evidence of effort to have 
everything tend in the best manner possible to produce a 
desired effect." 

Pope was a man of leisure; his father had left him a 
fair fortune; he earned a large sum by translating the 
"Iliad" and "Odyssey"; he had an income of eight hun- 
dred pounds. Calmly seated in his pretty house at Twick- 
enham, in his grotto, or in the fine garden which he had 
planned, he could polish his writings as long as he chose. 
When he had written a work, he kept it at least two years 
in his desk. From time to time he re-read and corrected 
it; took counsel of his friends, then of his enemies; no 
new edition was unamended; he altered without wearying. 
His first outburst became so recast and transformed that 
it could not be recognized in the final copy. 

Constant ill-health made Pope's temper fretful and irri- 
table. He was a man most peculiar in his appearance; 
not four feet high, so small that a high-chair was placed 
for him at table, hunchbacked and thin, so weak that he 
was scarce able to hold himself erect, so sensitive to cold 
that he was constantly wrapped in flannels and furs. But 
this unfortunate man had a fine face and a glowing eye; 
in dress he was fastidious, his manners, too, were elegant. 
He had to bear the constant reminder of his physical 
infirmities as he looked upon the stately figures of men 




ALEXANDER POPE. 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 149 

who were his companions and literary rivals. On account 
of his helplessness, Pope was specially subject to the in- 
fluence of those who surrounded him. As he was more 
sensitive to ridicule than were others, he was also 
fonder of praise. His tender-hearted mother in satisfying 
his craving for admiration helped him in his work. Not- 
withstanding his defects of character he secured the warm 
attachment of his friends. The relations between Pope 
and Swift were close and cordial. The famous dean was 
twenty-one years older than Pope, but there must have 
been a strong inherent sympathy between them. Each 
had all the tastes of the author and man of letters; each 
was audacious and satirical; each saw through and de- 
spised the hollowness of society. Swift's ambition was 
for power; Pope's for fame. It certainly shows some 
real elevation of soul in both, that two men, each so irri- 
table, and whose very points of resemblance might have 
made it easier for them to come into collision, should have 
remained steady friends for twenty-five years. The wit, 
the elegance, the literary taste and political sentiments 
of Bolingbroke made him the object of Pope's admira- 
tion. An intimate friendship between them brought the 
poet under powerful and pernicious influence. To have 
had his distinguishing weakness nourished by his mother, 
to have been loved by the sturdiest, heartiest, and most 
terrible of haters, and to have received the patronage and 
praise of the most dashing, the most attractive, and the 
most worthless public man of the time, was Pope's expe- 
rience. 

His relations to Addison were characteristic on both 
sides. Several trifling circumstances conspired to create 
an unpleasant state of feeling between them. Open un- 
friendliness was caused by Pope's assault on John Dennis 



150 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

for his "Remarks on the Tragedy of Cato." Addison was 
suspected of having made this assault, and in averting sus- 
picion from himself he quietly said that had he answered 
the "Remarks" he would have done it in a gentlemanly 
manner. Pope could not forgive this rebuke; it was too 
severe to be forgotten. Some time later Addison in a 
paper published in the "Freeholder" spoke in high terms 
of Pope's translation of Homer. The poet's susceptible 
nature was touched, and he in turn immortalized Addison 
in the fifth satire : 

"And in our days (excuse some courtly stains) 
No whiter page than Addison remains; 
He from the taste obscene reclaims our youth, 
And sets the passions on the side of truth; 
Forms the soft bosom with the gentlest art, 
And pours each human virtue in the heart." 

In religious belief, Pope was a Roman Catholic, and he 
would not let himself be driven or persuaded into any 
act of formal apostasy, but there is scarcely a page of his 
poetry in which the leaven of that scepticism which per- 
vaded the society in which he moved may not be traced. 
The religious indifferentism which he assumed had, un- 
doubtedly, many conveniences, in an age when a pro- 
fession of Catholic faith was repressed by every kind of 
vexatious, penal disability, and the literary circle in which 
he lived was composed of Protestants or unbelievers. But 
whatever may have been the aberrations of his life, its 
closing scene was one of earnest faith and pious resigna- 
tion. "The priest who administered the last sacrament 
found his penitent resigned and wrapt up in the love of 
God and man." Such was his fervor in the last hour, 
that he exerted all his strength to throw himself out of 
bed, in order to receive the last sacrament kneeling. He 
calmly expired in May, 1744. 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 151 

Pope's "Essay on Criticism," which appeared in 1711, 
is lacking in originality though not in excellence of judg- 
ment. The "Rape of the Lock" is superior to any other 
mock-heroic composition. The "Dunciad" is incompar- 
ably the finest and most sweeping satire in the whole 
range of English literature. The most noted of his works 
not already mentioned are his pastoral eclogues entitled 
"Windsor Forest," "Moral Essays," and "Letters." 

The "Essay on Man" is an argumentative poem. It 
seems to be a vindication of the ways of Providence in 
the government of the world, yet it makes God the author 
of moral evil, and it takes away human responsibility. 
Apart from its ethical faultiness, the neatness and con- 
ciseness of the language, the melody of the verse, and the 
beauty and fidelity of the illustrations prove that if the 
poet has not produced a perfect model of didactic poetry, 
it is simply for the reason that such an object is beyond 
the attainment of man. 

FROM THE "ESSAY ON MAN." 

Know then this truth, enough for man to know, 

"Virtue alone is happiness below." 

The only point where human bliss stands still, 

And tastes the good without the fall to ill; 

Where only merit constant pay receives, 

Is blest in what it takes and what it gives; 

The joy unequaled, if its end it gain; 

And if it lose, attended with no pain: 

Without satiety, though e'er so blest, 

And but more relished as the more distressed: 

The broadest mirth unfeeling Folly wears, 

Less pleasing far than Virtue's very tears: 

Good, from each object, from each place required, 

Forever exercised, yet never tired; 

Never elated, while one man's oppressed; 

Never dejected, while another's blest; 



152 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

And where no wants, no wishes can remain, 
Since but to wish more virtue is to gain. 

See the sole bliss Heaven could on all bestow! 
Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know; 
Yet poor with fortune, and with learning blind, 
The bad must miss, the good, untaught, will find; 
Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, 
But looks through nature up to nature's God; 
Pursues that chain which links the immense design, 
Joins heaven and earth, and mortal and divine; 
Sees that no being any bliss can know, 
But touches some above and some below; 
Learns from this union of the rising whole, 
The first, last purpose of the human soul; 
And knows where faith, law, morals, all began, 
All end — in love of God and love of man. 

For him alone, hope leads from goal to goal, 
And opens still, and opens in his soul; 
Till lengthened on to faith, and unconfined, 
It pours the bliss that fills up all the mind. 
He sees why nature plants in man alone, 
Hope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unknown: 
Nature, whose dictates to no other kind 
Are given in vain, but what they seek they find; 
Wise is her present: she connects in this 
His greatest virtue with his greatest bliss; 
At once his own bright prospect to be blest, 
And strongest motive to assist the rest. 

Self-love thus pushed to social, to divine, 
Gives thee to make thy neighbor's blessing thine. 
Is this too little for the boundless heart? 
Extend it, let thy enemies have part: 
Grasp the whole worlds of reason, life, and sense, 
In one close system of benevolence: 
Happier as kinder in whate'er degree, 
And height of bliss but height of charity. 

God loves from whole to parts: but human soul 
Must rise from individual to the whole. 
Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, 
As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake; 



Eighteenth century. 153 

The center moved, a circle straight succeeds 

Another still, and still another spreads; 

Friend, parent, neighbor, first it will embrace; 

His country next; and next all human race; 

Wide and more wide, the o'erflowings of the mind, 

Take every creature in, of every kind; 

Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blest, 

And Heaven beholds its image in his breast. 

Come, then, my friend! my genius! come along 

master of the poet and the song! 

And, while the muse now stoops or now ascends, 

To man's low passions or their glorious ends, 

Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise, 

To fall with dignity, with temper rise; 

Formed by thy converse, happily to steer 

From grave to gay, from lively to severe: 

Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease, 

Intent to reason, or polite to please. 

Oh! while along the stream of time thy name 

Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame, 

Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, 

Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale? 

When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, 

Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes, 

Shall then this verse to future age pretend 

Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend? 

That, urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art, 

From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart; 

For Wit's false mirror held up Nature's light; 

Showed erring pride, whatever is, is right; 

That reason, passion, answer one great, aim; 

That true self-love and social are the same; 

That virtue only makes our bliss below; 

And all our knowledge is, ourselves to know. 
Foreign Contemporaries. — In France, the eighteenth 
century was pre-eminently an age of infidelity and scepti- 
cism. Voltaire, Rousseau, Montesquieu, as well as Dide- 
rot, D'Aiembert, and the other liberal thinkers who wrote 
upon the Encyclopedia, while they urged the doctrines 



154 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

of freedom and the natural rights of man, recklessly as- 
saulted time-honored creeds and institutions. 

In Germany, Lessing, Winckelman, Klopstock and 
other patriots, endeavored to create a reaction against 
French influence, but scepticism had become rampant in 
Germany. Among those more immediately in contact 
with the prevailing spirit were Kant, Fichte and Hegel. 

Kant is the founder of modern transcendentalism. 
He taught that we can only know phenomena, that the 
noumenon or essence is beyond our knowing, that time 
and space are mere subjective conditions of thinking. He 
created an abyss between the metaphysical reason and the 
practical reason, and then attempted to reconcile them 
over the chasm. Upon his principles there was no recon- 
ciliation. In throwing the shadow of scepticism upon 
metaphysical truth, in spite of his protests, he rendered 
moral truth no less uncertain, and soon found disciples 
who were more logical than he was. 

Fichte destroyed all objectivity, and basing all knowl- 
edge upon the Ego — self — he found himself incompetent 
to assert more than his own identity, and he thus ended 
in subjective pantheism. 

Hegel taught that all nature, both the material and 
spiritual world, is a manifestation of the Idea which he 
calls reason in philosophy, and the world-spirit in history. 
In his philosophy, we are parts of the great whole — 
the all-absorbing Absolute, necessitated by our nature to 
seek freedom for freedom's sake, and for the benefit of 
those coming after us; and, after our share of the work 
shall have been accomplished, we will be merged into the 
primordial substance whence we emanated. He ignores 
the most strongly attested principles of thought and ex- 
istence, and heeds not the loudest asseverations of human 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 155 

nature concerning its future destiny, the immortal spark 
that gives it life, and the personal God from whom it 
came. 

This doctrine of indefinite progressiveness and of in- 
stinctive finality, by which all nature, under the impulse 
of the Idea, tends to perfection, has no foundation in rea- 
son. For how can nature proceed toward an end it knows 
not. As well might you say that it can see by a light 
that does not exist. The philosophy of the indefinite 
can give only a literature of the indefinite. Its key-note 
is the vague. Aspirations unfulfilled, yearnings unsatis- 
fied, life without a purpose: these are the normal themes 
of such a literature. If the Hegelian refuses to consider 
the indefinite future, and confines himself to the Idea 
animating society and constructing history, he can find 
no ideal beyond the actual world in which we live and 
move. The logical outcome of Hegelism from this point 
of view is realism in literature, and realism is the bane 
of literature. 

English Contempararies. 

Jonathan Swift (1667=1745.) 

"The most agreeable companion, the truest friend, and the 
greatest genius of his age." — Addison. 

"Swift was in person tall, strong and well made, of a dark 
complexion, but with blue eyes, black and bushy eyebrows, 
nose somewhat aquiline, and features which well expressed 
the stern, haughty and dauntless turn of his mind. He was 
never known to laugh, and his smiles are happily character- 
ized by the well-known lines of Shakespeare: 

'Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort 
As if he mocked himself, and scorned his spirit 
That could be mov'd to smile at anything.' 
Indeed, the whole description of Cassius .might be applied to 
Swift."— Sir Walter Scott. 



156 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Jonathan Swift, or Dean Swift, as he is usually called, 
was born in Dublin of English parents. His father died 
- in poverty and Swift as a child became dependent upon 
the precarious charity of relatives. His uncle sent him to 
Trinity College, Dublin, and here after irregular and 
desultory study he received his degree in 1685 with the 
unfavorable notice that it was conferred as a special favor, 
indicating that his conduct had not satisfied the college 
authorities. To Swift this was a great humiliation, and 
from this time his life seemed to be made wretched by 
sorrow and hatred. He fostered an exaggerated pride, 
and under an outward calmness furious passions raged. 

In 1688 he became secretary to Sir William Temple, and 
here, with a salary of twenty pounds a year, he spent ten 
years amidst the humiliations of servitude and the famil- 
iarity of the servants' hall. This life was galling to Swift's 
haughty spirit, but he employed his leisure moments in 
study and extensive reading, thus correcting the defects 
of his earlier education. On the death of Sir William 
Temple, Swift became the literary executor of his patron, 
and prepared numerous works for the press. These, with 
a preface and dedication written by himself, he presented 
to William III., expecting an appointment, but he got 
nothing, and fell back upon the position of chaplain to the 
Earl of Berkely. The earl' promised him the Deanery 
of Derry, but gave it to another. Driven to politics, Swift 
wrote in the interests of the Whig party a pamphlet, "Dis- 
sensions in Athens and Rome," and received from Lord 
Halifax and other party leaders, a score of fine promises 
which were never fulfilled. 

"The Tale of a Tub," his first important work, was pub- 
lished in 1704, but was written in 1696. It is one of the 
wittiest and coarsest polemical works ever written. The 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 157 

title as explained by Swift means that, as sailors throw 
oil*: a tub to a whale to keep him amused, and to prevent 
him from running foul of their ship, so, in this treatise, 
his object is to afford such temporary diversion to the 
wits and freethinkers of the day as may restrain them from 
injuring the state by propagating wild theories in religion 
and politics. It is a savage pasquinade ridiculing the 
Roman Catholics and Presbyterians and exalting the 
High Anglican party. The general effect of the book is 
that of a satirical attack on Christianity itself; and it 
shows plainly that Swift was a cynic and a materialist, 
and utterly scouted all religion in his secret heart. 

"The Battle of the Books" is Swift's contribution to the 
controversy on the respective merits of classical and mod- 
ern literature. The merits of the case he does not touch; 
but with grotesque invention, and with unscrupulous use 
of everything coarse and ludicrous in language, he strives 
to cover his opponents with contempt. This work gave a 
foretaste of those tremendous powers of sarcasm which 
made him the most formidable pamphleteer that ever 
lived. 

His advocacy of Whig principles, never very hearty, 
- came to an end in 1710. He regarded Ireland with detes- 
tation and was eager for a promotion that would enable 
him to reside in England. But his hopes were not fulfilled 
he therefore abandoned his party, and became a Tory. 
He now used all his powers of sophistry and all the stores 
of his fancy to kindle a feeling of enthusiasm for the 
Tory statesmen. As a reward he received the Deanery 
of St. Patrick, Dublin. He was received with contempt 
in Ireland, but after he had written the famous "Drapier 
Letters" the tide of feeling turned in his favor. These 
letters, signed M. B. Drapier, were inserted in a Dublin 



158 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

newspaper. The occasion was the attempt of the English 
ministry to force the circulation of copper money in Ire- 
land. Swift persuaded the people not only to refuse to take 
it, but to refrain from using any English manufactures 
whatever. It was about this time that he wrote "Gulli- 
ver's Travels/' ostensibly a tale, in reality a political 
pamphlet. It exhibits a singular mixture of misanthropy, 
satire and humor, together with unpardonable grossness. 
The "Journal to Stella" is a curious and intimate cor- 
respondence with Esther Johnson, a beautiful young girl 
who resided with the Temple family, and to whom Swift 
gave instruction. They were privately married in 171 6. 
The poem "Cademus and Vanessa" was addressed to 
Hester Vanhomrigh, a lady whose intellectual education 
he directed, and who conceived for him an ardent passion, 
which he described, while he checked, in this poem. The 
disappointment of her hopes, added to the discovery of his 
private marriage to Stella, brought poor Vanessa to the 
grave. The death of Stella, one of the few beings whom 
he ever really loved, happened in 1728; and the loss of 
many friends further contributed to intensify the gloom 
of his spirit. He had suffered occasionally from giddi- 
ness, and after Stella's death the attacks were more fre- 
quent and more severe. Deafness deprived him of the 
pleasure of conversation. Forebodings of insanity tor- 
mented him until they were cruelly verified. In 1741 he 
passed into a state of idiocy that lasted without interrup- 
tion until his death, in 1745. He is buried in the Cathedral 
of St. Patrick and over his grave is inscribed that terrible 
epitaph composed by himself, in which he speaks of rest- 
ing "ubi saeva indignatio ulterius cor lacerare nequit."* 

*Where fierce indignation no longer lacerates the heart. 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 159 

Swift will ever be regarded as one of the masters of 
English prose, and his poetical works will give him a 
place among the poets of the age. 

FROM THE "CONDUCT OF THE ALLIES." 

"But, when the war was once begun, there soon fell in 
other incidents here at honie, which made the continuance 
of it necessary for those who were the chief advisers. The 
Whigs were at that time out of all credit or consideration; the 
reigning favorites had always carried what was called the 
Tory principle at least as high as our constitution could 
bear, and most others in great employments were wholly in 
the church interest. These last, among whom several were 
persons of the highest merit, quality and consequence, were 
not able to endure the many instances of pride, insolence, 
avarice and ambition which those favorites began so early to 
discover, nor to see them presuming to be the sole dispensers 
of the royal favor. However, their opposition was to no pur- 
pose; they wrestled with too great a power and were crushed 
under it. For those in possession, finding they could never 
be quiet in their usurpations while others had any credit who 
were at least upon an equal foot of merit, began to make over- 
tures to the discarded Whigs, who would be content with any 
terms of accommodation. Thus commenced this Solemn 
League and Covenant, which hath ever since been cultivated 
with so much zeal and application. The great traders in 
money were wholly devoted to the Whigs who had first raised 
them. The army, the court and the treasury continued under 
the old despotic administration; the Whigs were received 
into employment, left to manage the parliament, cry down 
the landed interest and worry the church. Meantime our allies 
who were not ignorant that all this artificial structure had no 
true foundation in the hearts of the people, resolved to make 
their best use of it as long as it should last. And the gen- 
eral's ^credit being raised to a great height at home by our 
success in Flanders, the Dutch began their gradual imposi- 
tions, lessening their quotas, breaking their stipulations, gar- 
risoning the towns we took for them, without supplying their 
troops, with many other infringements, all which we were 



160 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

forced to submit to, because the general was made easy, be- 
cause the moneyed men at home were fond of the war, because 
the Whigs were not yet firmly settled, and because the exor- 
bitant degree of power which was built upon a supposed neces- 
sity of employing particular persons would go off in a peace. 
It is needless to add that the emperor and other princes fol- 
lowed the example of the Dutch, and succeeded as well for the 
same reasons." 

Joseph Addison (1672=1719). 

"Whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but 
not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days 
and nights to the volumes of Addison." — Samuel Johnson. 

Joseph Addison, the son of Lancelot Addison, a clergy- 
man of some reputation, was born at Milston in Wiltshire, 
in 1672. In his early years he was sent to the Charter- 
house school, and when fifteen years of age he entered 
Oxford, where he distinguished himself by his scholar- 
ship and by his taste for Latin poetry. In his twenty- 
second year he made his first attempt in English verse; 
this was an "Address to Dryden," by which the old poet's 
friendship was won. A eulogistic poem on William III., 
gained for the young author a pension of three hundred 
pounds. He at once left England that he might cultivate 
his tastes by travel. Soon after his return he published 
his "Travels in Italy," a work which displays great hos- 
tility to Catholicism. The death of William III. deprived 
Addison of his pension, and he returned to London, 
where he lived in poverty, but with that dignified patience 
and quiet reserve which made his character so estimable. 

His next composition was the "Campaign," a poem 
celebrating the victory of Blenheim. It was written at the 
request of Godolphin, then lord treasurer, who when he 
saw the passage in which Addison compares the victo- 
rious Marlborough to an angel guiding the whirlwind, 




JOSEPH ADDISON. 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 160 

immediately made Addison a commissioner of appeals. 

The famous passage runs thus: 

"So when an angel by divine command, 
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, 
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past, 
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast, 
And, pleased the Almighty's orders to perform, 
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm." 

From the writing of that successful poem, the career 
of Addison was brilliant and prosperous. He was ap- 
pointed under-secretary of state, and afterwards chief 
secretary for Ireland. 

Addison won no distinction as a member of the House 
of Commons, or as a public officer. His timidity pre- 
vented him from speaking with effect, and his powers of 
conversation deserted him when in the presence of more 
than two or three hearers. In 1716, he married the Count- 
ess Dowager of Warwick, to whose son he had been 
tutor, but the union seems not to have added to the hap- 
piness of either. He would often escape from the elegance 
of Holland House to spend his days and nights with old 
friends in the clubs and coffee-houses. He died at the 
early age of forty-seven. A distressing asthma had 
afflicted his closing years, and other trials had attended 
him; but his serene and gentle spirit lost none of its 
patience. 

The fertility of invention displayed in his charming- 
papers published in the Tatler, Spectator, and Guardian, 
the variety of their subjects, and the felicity of their treat- 
ment will ever place them among the masterpieces of 
fiction and of criticism. His delineations of character are 
wonderfully delicate. That inimitable personage, Sir 
Roger de Coverly, is a perfectly finished picture worthy of 
Cervantes or of Walter Scott. His tragedy of "Cato" is 



164 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

strictly classical in form, but is stiff and frigid. It is now 
comparatively neglected, although it abounds with fine 
passages. As a poet, Addison does not take the highest 
rank. 

CATO'S SOLILOQUY. 

It must be so — Plato, thou reasonest well — 

Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 

This longing after immortality? 

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror 

Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the Soul 

Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 

'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us; 

'Tis Heaven itself that points out a hereafter, 

And intimates eternity to man. 

Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! 

Through what variety of untried being, 

Through what new scenes and changes must we pass! 

The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me; 

But shadows, clouds and darkness rest upon it. 

Here will I hold. If there's a power above us, 

(And that there is, all Nature cries aloud 

Through all her works), he must delight in virtue; 

And that which he delights in must be happy. 

But when or where? — This world was made for Caesar. 

I'm weary of conjectures — this must end 'em. 

Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life, 
My bane and antidote are both before me. 
This in a moment brings me to an end; 
But this informs me I shall never die. 
The Soul secured in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger and defies its point: 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 
The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds. 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 165 

Sir Richard Steele (1672=1729). 

Sir Richard Steele, the associate and friend of Addison, 
was born in Dublin in 1672. Under the patronage of the 
Duke of Ormonde he was placed in the Charterhouse 
school, and there made his first acquaintance with Addi- 
son, whose diligence and success he admired but failed 
to imitate. He entered Oxford, but after a short stay 
there enlisted in the Horse-Guards. This rash act cost 
him a fortune, for on account of this a wealthy relative 
revoked a will which would have made Steele a rich man. 
Though he led a life of dissipation, his benevolence was 
deep, and his aspirations were lofty ; but his passions were 
strong, and he was ahvays ready to sacrifice his welfare 
for the whim of the moment. When he became a captain 
in Lucas's Fusiliers, he astonished the town by his wild 
extravagance, but for this he was not without remorse. 
He wrote a moral treatise entitled "The Christian Hero," 
wdiich contained the loftiest sentiments of piety and vir- 
tue. He intended this work to be an expression of his 
reform, and a means of effecting it, but the taunts of his 
fellow-officers made him fall back into his old habits. 

Being an ardent partisan pamphleteer he was employed 
by the Whigs to write "The Gazette" during the war of 
the Spanish succession. The nature of his employment 
suggested the design of "The Tatler," a tri-weekly sheet, 
giving the latest items of news and with them a tale or 
an essay. Thus to Steele belongs the credit of having 
founded English periodical literature. The success of 
"The Tatler" being decisive, it was followed by "The 
Spectator," the plan of which was projected by Addison, 
assisted by Steele. Steele's essays, though teeming with 
- originality and freshness, lack the finish and grace which 
mark those of Addison. Nature had done more for 



166 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Steele ; Addison's steady application to his art more than 
compensated for his lesser gifts of genius. 

Steele figured prominently in the politics of the time; 
he became a member of Parliament, but was expelled for 
seditious language. Under George I., his zeal was re- 
warded by knighthood, and he had several lucrative ap- 
pointments, but his extravagance and his carelessness 
in money matters kept his purse empty. Early in his 
literary career he produced three comedies, which had 
little success. His last literary work was "The Conscious 
Lovers," a comedy which was received with great en- 
thusiasm in 1722. The last years of his life were spent in 
Wales, on a small estate left to him by indulgent cred- 
itors. Here he died of paralysis in 1729. 

Samuel Johnson (1709=1784). 

"A mass of genuine manhood." — Carlyle. 

"The special title of moralist in English literature is accord- 
ed by the public voice to Johnson, whose bias to Catholicity is 
well known." — Cardinal Newman. 

Samuel Johnson was born at Lichfield in 1709. His 
father was a native of Derbyshire, but had settled in Lich- 
field as a bookseller. After having received the rudiments 
of a classical education at various country schools, he 
entered Pembroke College, Oxford, in the year 1728. 
His father about this time suffered heavy losses in busi- 
ness, in consequence of which Johnson had to struggle 
for many years against the deepest poverty. Nor were 
either his mental or bodily constitution so healthful and 
vigorous as to compensate for the frowns of fortune. 
Leaving the university, he attempted to support him- 
self by teaching, but he was unsuccessful and turned his 
attention to literary work. In 1735 he married a Mrs. 
Porter, a widow, and going to London he contributed 




SAMUEL JOHNSON. 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 169 

many papers to "The Gentleman's Magazine." From 
1747 to 1755 he was engaged in the preparation of his 
most famous work, "A Dictionary of the English Lan- 
guage." He had promised to complete it in three years; 
but the labor was arduous, and seven years were spent in 
getting its pages ready for the printer. 

The once famous moral tale "Rasselas, Prince of Abys- 
sinia," he wrote in the nights of one week to defray the 
expenses of his mother's funeral. The manners and 
scenery of the story are not those of Abyssinia nor of any 
other country, and the book is but a series of reflections 
embodying the author's ideas on a great variety of sub- 
jects. Johnson said that had he seen the "Candide" of 
Voltaire he should not have written "Rasselas," as the two 
works go over the same ground, both picturing a world 
full of misery and sin. But Voltaire uses the fact to 
excite a sneer at religion; Johnson, on the contrary, as an 
argument for our faith an a coming immortality. 

Johnson founded and carried on alone, two periodical 
papers in the style that Addison and Steele had rendered 
so popular. These, the Rambler and the Idler, together 
with other works which appeared from time to time, and 
above all, his unrivaled excellence as a talker, made his 
company eagerly sought after by persons of all ranks. 
After the accession of George III., he received a pension 
of three hundred pounds a year. In 1781 he published 
'The Lives of the P@ets." It abounds in passages of the 
finest criticism, but the choice of lives was determined by 
the likelihood of popularity; many of the greatest names 
in our literature have been omitted. Among his poems, 
the satire called "London," an imitation of the third satire 
of Juvenal, and the didactic poem on "The Vanity of 
Human Wishes," are the most deserving of notice. 



170 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

He was for many years haunted by a morbid fear of 
death, but when the dread moment approached he became 
unusually patient and gentle. He ceased to think with 
terror of death and of that which lies beyond death and 
trusted in the mercy of God. He died on the 13th of 
December, 1784, and a week afterwards was buried in 
Westminster Abbey. 

Johnson's character shows a blending of prejudice and 
liberality, of scepticism and credulity. In common breed- 
ing he was sadly lacking; his dress, his motion, his voice, 
his face, his manner of eating— all were offensive. The 
blending of greatness and meanness puzzles us until we 
remember that his severe schooling in poverty developed 
the noble and the adverse traits together. When, weary 
and lame, he reached the top of the ladder, by which he 
had climbed from obscurity to fame, he had brought with 
him the offensive traits of his lowly life. His style was so 
peculiar that it has received the distinguishing name of 
"Johnsonese." Short words had no charm for him, sonor- 
ous Latin derivatives, and carefully elaborated sentences 
were marshaled in honor of his thoughts. Goldsmith once 
said to him: "If you were to write a story about little 
fishes, Doctor, you would make the little fishes talk like 
whales." In fact his thought is developed with the regu- 
larity and splendor of a procession. His famous letter to 
Lord Chesterfield is in striking contrast with his general 
style. 

"My Lord: I have lately been informed by the proprietor 
of The World that two papers in which my Dictionary is 
recommended to the public were written by your lordship. To 
be so distinguished is an honor which, being little accustomed 
to favors from the great, I know not well how to receive nor 
in what terms to acknowledge. Seven years, my lord, have now 
passed since I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 171 

from your door; during which time I have been pushing on 
my work through difficulties of which it is useless to com- 
plain, and have brought it at last to the verge of publication, 
without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, one 
smile of favor. * * * The notice which you have been 
pleased to take of my labors, had it been early, had been kind; 
but it has been delayed till I am indifferent and cannot enjoy 
it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and 
do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to con- 
fess obligations when no benefit has been received, or to be 
unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that 
to a patron which Providence has enabled me to do for myself. 
Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation 
to any favorer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though 
I should conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have 
long been wakened from that dream of hope in which I once 
boasted myself with so much exultation, my lord. 

"Your lordship's most humble, most obedient servant, 

"SAMUEL JOHNSON." 

As a man Johnson possessed admirable traits of char- 
acter. His heart was tender to those who wanted relief, 
and his soul was susceptible of gratitude and of every kind 
impression. His veracity, in the most trivial as in the most 
solemn occasions, was strict even to severity, and he 
scorned to embellish a story with fictitious circumstances. 
His stern integrity, his love of argument and of society, 
his repartee and brow-beating, all helped to make him a 
man of mark in his time. But his mind is not seen in its 
full light, if we do not add to the productions of his pen, 
the record of his colloquial wit and eloquence and the 
complete portraiture, both inward and outward, preserved 
in the pages of his biographer, Boswell. 

Johnson's poem on the "Vanity of Human Wishes" is 
an imitation of the tenth Satire of Juvenal. The striking 
passage on Hannibal ("Expende Hannibalem," etc.) is 



172 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

transferred to Charles XII. of Sweden. The lines will 
bear quotation: — 

On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, 

How just his hopes let Swedish Charles decide; 

A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, 

No dangers fright him, and no labors tire; 

O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, 

Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain; 

No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, 

War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field; 

Behold surrounding kings their pow'rs combine, 

And one capitulate, and one resign; 

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain; 

"Think nothing gained," he cries, "till naught remain; 

On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, 

And all be mine beneath the polar sky." 

The march begins in solitary state, 

And nations on his eye suspended wait; 

Stern famine guards the solitary coast, 

And Winter barricades the realms of frost; 

He comes, not want and cold his course delay; 

Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day: 

The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, 

And shows his miseries in distant lands; 

Condemned, a needy suppliant to wait; 

While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. 

But did not chance at length her error mend? 

Did no subverted empire mark his end? 

Or hostile millions press him to the ground? 

His fall was destined to a barren strand, 

A petty fortress and a dubious hand: 

He left the name, at which the world grew pale, 

To point a moral or adorn a tale. 

Oliver Goldsmith (1728=1774). 

"No man was ever so foolish when he had not a pen in his 
hand, or more wise when he had." — Samuel Johnson. 

"Think of him reckless, thoughtless, vain, if you like — 
but merciful, gentle, generous, full of love and pity." — W. M. 
Thackeray. 




OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 175 

Oliver Goldsmith, the most charming and versatile 
writer of the eighteenth century, was born at Pallas, 
County of Longford, Ireland, in the year 1728. His 
father was a curate of the Established Church, and is 
described in the characters of the Alan in Black in 
"The Citizen of the World," the preacher in "The De- 
serted Village," and Dr. Primrose in "The Vicar of Wake- 
field." At the age of eighteen Oliver obtained a servant's 
scholarship at Trinity College, Dublin. He neglected his 
studies, and became noted for his disobedience to au- 
thority and for his improvidence. After four years at 
the university, he tried successively the professions of 
teacher, clergyman, lawyer and physician, but failed in 
all. In 1755-6 he traveled on foot through Flanders, Ger- 
many, Switzerland and Italy, and returned to England 
in poverty but still hopeful and happy. In 1762 he pub- 
lished "The Citizen of the World,'' which was originally 
contributed to the Public Ledger in the form of letters 
supposed to be written by a Chinese philosopher resident 
in England. 

His didactic poem "The Traveler" appeared in 1765, at 
which time he had long been settled in London, doing 
miscellaneous literary work for the booksellers. This 
poem was the beginning of his uninterrupted literary suc- 
cess. His writings were sought by publishers, who were 
ready to pay him generous prices, but his folly and his 
improvidence kept him always in debt. Great intellectual 
growth is visible in "The Deserted Village," which ap- 
peared in 1770. This, his finest poem, made him famous. 

Goldsmith is the author of two amusing comedies, 
"The Good-natured Man" and "She Stoops to Conquer," 
the latter being one of the gayest, most amusing plays 
that the English stage can boast. "The Vicar of Wake- 



176 LESSONS.IN LITERATURE. 

field," a much admired domestic novel, is, in spite of the 
absurdity of the plot, one of those works that the world 
will not let die. The gentle and quiet humor embodied in 
the simple Dr. Primrose, the delicate yet vigorous con- 
trast of character in the other personages, the purity, 
cheerfulness and gayety which envelop all the scenes and 
incidents, insure the immortality of the work. His his- 
tories were hurriedly written and are valueless as au- 
thorities, yet for their grace of composition and vivacity 
of narration they have had an extensive sale. 

In genuine and overflowing benevolence of heart, few 
men have surpassed Goldsmith, but his want of high 
moral and religious tone is to be deplored. He was sub- 
ject to depression of spirits, and in 1774, continued vexa- 
tion of mind, arising perhaps from pecuniary troubles, 
brought on a nervous fever of which he died in his forty- 
sixth year. His grave was not marked by any inscrip- 
tion, and it cannot now be found, but his hosts of friends 
erected to his memory a monument in Westminster 
Abbey. 

The characteristics of Goldsmith are thus described by 
Dr. Johnson : "A man of such variety of powers and such 
felicity of performance, that he always seemed to do best 
that which he was doing; a man who had the art of being 
minute without tediousness, .and general without confu- 
sion; whose language was copious without exuberance, 
exact without constraint, and easy without weakness." 

THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, 
Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring swain, 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid 
And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd; 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 177 

Seats of my youth when every sport could please; 

How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 

Where humble happiness endear'd each scene; 

How often have I paused on every charm, 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topt the neighb'ring hill, 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 

For talking age and whispering lovers made! 

How often have I blest the coming day, 

When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 

And all the village train, from labor free, 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, 

While many a pastime circled in the shade, 

The young contending as the old survey 'd; 

And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 

And sleights of art, and feats of strength went round; 

And still as each repeated pleasure tired, 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired. 

The dancing pair that simply sought renown, 

By holding out, to tire each other down; 

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 

While secret laughter tittered round the place; 

The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, 

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove — 

These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, 

With sweet succession, taught ev'n toil to please; 

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, 

These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 

Sweet, smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 

Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; 

Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 

And desolation saddens all thy green: 

One only master grasps the whole domain, 

And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain; 

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 

But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way; 

Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;, 



178 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvary'd cries. 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall; 
And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates and men decay; 
Princes and lords may flourish or may fade; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. 

Thomas Gray (1716=1771). Thomas Gray was born 
at Cornhill, London, in 1716. His father is described as 
a money-scrivener; we should say now-a-days, he was 
a member of the stock exchange. Gray received his edu- 
cation at Eton and at Cambridge. After leaving Cam- 
bridge he traveled on the continent with a fellow-student, 
Horace Walpole, son of the Prime Minister. Gray de- 
scribed this journey in a series of letters, which are models 
of epistolary correspondence. He acquired a literary 
reputation by his "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton 
College," published in 1747. This was followed by "The 
Bard," the "Progress of Poesy," the "Ode to Adversity," 
and other -brilliant productions. The famous "Elegy in a 
Country Churchyard" was first published in a magazine 
in 1750. The melancholy beauty of these lovely lines is 
enhanced by the purity of the style. The thoughts are 
obvious enough, but the finished grace of the language 
and versification in which they are embodied gives to 
the work the perfection of design and execution which is 
seen in an antique statue. 

In 1768 he obtained the professorship of Modern His- 
tory in the University of Cambridge. In 177 1, while din- 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 179 

ing in the college hall, he was seized with the illness of 
which he died in a few days. He was buried by the side 
of his mother, in Stoke, a village of Buckinghamshire. 

Gray was possessed of varied acquirements; metaphy- 
sics, morals and politics made a principal part of his 
study. His greatest defect was an affectation of delicacy, 
or rather of effeminacy, less pardonable in a man of 
genius than in others. 

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such, as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mold'ring heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 

Or busy housewife ply her evening care; 
No children run to lisp their sire's return, 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 



180 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: 

How jocund did they drive their team afield! 
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Power, 
And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike the inevitable hour, 
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If Memory o'er their tombs no trophies raise, 

"Where through the long drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust, 
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; 

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 181 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast 

The little tyrant of his fields withstood; 
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, 

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

The applause of listening senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade: nor, circumscribed alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 

Their sober wishes never learned to stray; 
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial still, erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their names, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? 



182 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead. 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; 

If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing with hasty steps the dew away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; 

Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn, 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

"One morn I missed him on th' accustomed hill, 
Along the heauh, and near his favorite tree; 

Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne, 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 

'Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn" 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, 
A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown. 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 183 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send; 
He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear; 

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose) 

The bosom of his Father and his God. 

Edmund Burke (1730=1797). 

"Take up whatever topic you please, Burke is always ready 
to meet you." — Dr. Johnson. 

"He made himself even-where the champion of principle 
and the persecutor of vice; and men saw him bring to the 
attack all the forces of his wonderful knowledge, his lofty rea- 
son, his splendid style, with the unwearying and untempered 
ardor of a moralist and a knight." — Taine. 

Edmund Burke was born in Dublin and spent many 
of his early days near the ruins of Spenser's famous castle 
of Kilcolman. He was educated at Trinity College; he 
also spent some time at the English Catholic College of 
St. Omer. His father, Richard Burke, an Irish attorney, 
was at one time a Catholic, but apostatized in order to 
retain his office. As a boy Edmund Burke was distin- 
guished for his love of study, and for his remarkable 
powers of comprehension and retention. "When we were 
at play," wrote his brother Richard, "he was always at 
work." 

His first publication was anonymous, and was entitled 
"A Vindication of Natural Society," an ironical imitation 
of the style and sentiments of Lord Bolingbroke. So per- 
fect was the imitation that the most eminent critics of the 
day did not detect its intense irony, but pronounced it a 
genuine posthumous work of Lord Bolingbroke, which 
he had not dared to publish during his lifetime. In pur- 
suing Bolingbroke's reasoning, Burke reached the con- 



184 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

elusion that society itself is evil, and that only the savage 
state is conducive to virtue and happiness. 

In 1757 he published "An Essay on the Sublime and 
Beautiful," which placed him in the first class of writers on 
taste and criticism. This work has since been regarded 
as one of the classics in our literature. 

His political career was one of honor and activity. Dur- 
ing the agitated periods of the American and the French 
Revolutions, he was one of the most prominent debaters. 
In the contest between England and our country he de- 
voted himself to the defense of the colonies. He advo- 
cated the freedom of the press and the abolition of the 
slave trade; and his action in the trial of Warren Hastings 
will forever identify his name with whatever is great, ele- 
vated, and just in statesmanship and legislation. 

His incomparable work, "Reflections on the French 
Revolution," was written with anxious care and masterly 
skill. Its success repaid his labor, for it was read far and 
wide, and was influential in checking the dangerous ten- 
dencies of the age. His last work, "Letters on a Regicide 
Peace," was published a few months before his death, and 
is distinguished by its wisdom and far-seeing sagacity. 

Burke's domestic comfort was irretrievably impaired, 
and his life probably shortened, by the death of his son 
in 1794. In his celebrated "Letter to a Noble Lord" he 
speaks thus of his loss: "I live in an inverted order. 
They who ought to have succeeded me have gone before 
me. They who should have been to me as posterity, are 
in the place of ancestors. The storm has gone over me, 
and I lie like one of those old oaks which the late hur- 
ricane hath scattered about me. I am stripped of all my 
honors: I am torn up by the roots, and lie prostrate on 
the earth ! There, and prostrate there, I must unfeignedly 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 185 

recognize the divine justice, and in some degree submit 
to it." In July, 1797, he calmly expired at his country 
seat of Beaconsfield, retaining the perfect possession of 
his faculties to the last. 

The writings of Edmund Burke are the only political 
writings of a past age that continue to be read with in- 
terest in the present; and they are now, perhaps, more 
studied and better appreciated than when first produced. 
His diction was rich and varied, but the length of his 
speeches, their copiousness, abundance of ornament, and 
wide field of speculation produced impatience in men of 
business absorbed in the particular subject of debate. He 
was ever a bold, uncompromising champion of justice, 
mercy and truth, impartial in judgment, unswayed by 
political doctrine. 

From his 
SPEECH ON CONCILIATION WITH AMERICA. 

My hold of the colonies is in the close affection which grows 
from common names, from kindred blood, from similar privi- 
leges, and equal protection. There are ties which, though 
light as air, are as strong as links of iron. Let the colonies 
always keep the idea of their civil rights associated with your 
government; they will cling and grapple to you; and no force 
under heaven will be of power to tear them from your al- 
legiance. But let it be once understood that your government 
may be one thing and their privileges another; that these two 
things may exist without any mutual relation, the cement is 
gone — the cohesion is loosened — and everthing hastens to decay 
and dissolution. As long as you have the wisdom to keep the 
sovereign authority of this country as the sanctuary of liberty, 
the sacred temple consecrated to our common faith, wherever 
the chosen race and sons of England worship freedom, they 
will turn their faces toward you. The more they multiply, the 
more friends you will have; the more ardently they love lib- 
erty, the more perfect will be their obedience. Slavery they 
can have anywhere. It is a weed that grows in every soil. 



186 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

They may have it from Spain, they may have it from Prussia; 
but until you become lost to all feeling of your true interest 
and your mutual dignity, freedom they can have from none 
but you. This is the commodity of price, of which you have the 
monopoly. This is the true act of navigation, which binds 
you to the commerce of the colonies, and through them secures 
to you the wealth of the world. 

Deny them this participation of freedom, and you break 
that sole bond which originally made and must still preserve 
the unity of the empire. Do not entertain so weak an imagina- 
tion as that your registers and your bonds, your affidavits and 
your sufferances, your cockets and your clearances, are what 
form the great securities of your commerce. Do not dream 
that your letters of office, and your instructions, and your 
suspending clauses, are the things that hold together the great 
contexture of the mysterious whole. These things do not make 
your government. Dead instruments, passive tools as they are, 
it is the spirit of the English communion that gives all their 
life and efficacy to them. It is the spirit of the English Con- 
stitution, which, infused through the mighty mass, pervades, 
feeds, unites, invigorates, vivifies every part of the empire, even 
down to the minutest member. 

Is it not the same virtue which does everything for us here 
in England? Dp you imagine, then, that it is the Land Tax Act 
which raises your revenue? that it is the annual vote in the 
Committee of Supply which gives you your army? or that it is 
the Mutiny Bill which inspires it with bravery and discipline? 
No! surely no! It is the love of the people; it is their attach- 
ment to their government, from the sense of the deep stake 
they have in such a glorious institution — which gives you your 
army and your navy, and infuses into both that liberal obedi- 
ence, without which your army would be a base rabble, and 
your navy nothing but rotten timber. 

William Copper (1731=1800). William Cowper, the 
poet of home-life and domestic affections, was born in 
Hertfordshire, England, in 1731. The early death of his 
mother caused him to be sent at the age of six years to 
a school conducted by Dr. Titman. Here the timid child 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 187 

was for two years persistently and often cruelly tormented 
by the older pupils. For seven years he attended the 
famous Westminster school, where he was comparatively 
happy. Cowper's father wished him to study for the 
bar; but his unfitness for that profession becoming mani- 
fest, he was appointed to a clerkship in the House of 
Lords. An overpowering nervousness prevented him 
from discharging the duties of this post; at the thought 
of presenting himself for a formal examination he fell into 
despondency and attempted suicide. He recovered from 
this attack, but was so shaken by it that he was unfitted 
for public life, and he retired to the country. He placed 
himself under the care of the family of Mr. Unwin, a 
clergyman of Huntingdon. Cowper's virtues and ac- 
complishments secured for him the good-will of all, and 
especially won the tender and life-long friendship of Mrs. 
Unwin. 

Cowper was a believer in the gloomy religious doc- 
trines of Calvin, and was tormented with despair con- 
cerning eternal salvation. As a pastime, and as a means 
of diverting his melancholy thoughts, he prepared a vol- 
ume of poems for the press, and then pursued as a pro- 
fession what he had at first taken up as a diversion. He 
was more than fifty years of age when his first volume 
was published. It contained long didactic poems, the 
principal topics being "Truth," "Hope," "Charity" and 
"Conversation." At this time he met Lady Austin, who 
urged him to write his now famous ballad "John Gilpin." 
She next gave him "The Sofa" as a theme, and thus 
started him in the composition of his masterpiece, "The 
Task," a reflective poem in six books. 

His translation of Homer appeared in 179 1. It was his 
most laborious and least successful undertaking. Dis- 



188 . LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

appointed at the reception of this work, he meditated a 
revision of it, but his dread malady returned and the last 
years of his life were shrouded in its awful gloom. His 
"Letters" are famous and occupy the first rank in epistol- 
ary literature. 

Cowper's art is certainly defective; he seems to have 
believed that poetry has no rules. His versification is 
careless; and to rhythm and choice of words he pays far 
too little attention. 

"THE WINTER WALK AT NOON." 

Now at noon 
Upon the southern side of the slant hills, 
And where the woods fence off the northern blast, 
The season smiles resigning all its rage, 
And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue 
Without a cloud and white without a speck, 
The dazzling splendour of the scene below. 
Again the harmony comes o'er the vale; 
And through the trees I view th' embattled tower, 
Whence all the music. I again perceive 
The soothing influence of the wafted strains 
And settle in soft musings as I tread 
The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, 
Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. 
The roof, though movable through all its length; 
As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, 
And intercepting in their silent fall 
The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. 
No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. 
The redbreast warbles still, but is content 
With slender notes, and more than half suppressed; 
Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light 
From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes 
From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, 
That tinkle in the withered leaves below. 
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, 
Charms more than silence. Meditation here 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 189 

May think down hours to moments. Here the heart 
May give a useful lesson to the head, 
And Learning wiser grow without his books. 
Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, 
Have ofttimes no connexion. Knowledge dwells 
In heads replete with thoughts of other men; 
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. 
Knowledge a rude, ^unprofitable mass, 
The mere materials twith which Wisdom builds, 
Till smoothed, and squared, and fitted to its place, 
Does but encumber whom it seems t' enrich. 
Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much; 
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. 
Books are not seldom talismans and spells, 
By which the magic art of shrewder wits 
Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled. 

From "The Task," Book VI. 

Robert Burns (1750=1796).— Robert Burns was born in 
the hamlet of Alloway in Ayrshire, Scotland, and was the 
son of a peasant farmer of the humblest class. He re- 
ceived the best training his parish school could offer, and 
impelled by an eagerness for knowledge, he read some of 
the masterpieces of our literature. Until his twenty-eighth 
year he continued a weary struggle against poverty, and 
then resolved to seek his fortune in the West Indies. 
In order to raise money to defray the expenses of the 
voyage he published a volume of poems, but his work be- 
came so popular that he abandoned the idea of leaving 
Scotland. For two years he was lionized in the Scotch 
capital, then, after his marriage to Jean Armour, he was 
appointed exciseman. Unfortunately for him, this office 
threw in his way many temptations to intemperance. He 
removed to Dumfries. Here he became a slave to intem- 
perance; disappointment and self-reproach preyed upon 
him; want stared him in the face; and in his thirty- 



190 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

seventh year, this greatest of Scotch poets, having become 
a mere wreck of his former self, sank into an untimely 
grave. 

The poetical powers of Burns were of a high order, 
but for want of culture they failed to accomplish what 
they had at first promised. His best poems are "Tarn 
O'Shanter," "The Cotter's Saturday Night," "The Twa 
Dogs," "Scots wha tiae wi' Wallace bled," "Ye Banks and 
Braes," and "Bonnie Doom" 

LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON 
THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 
Now nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea: 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams 

And glads the azure skies; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing; 
The merle, in his noontide bower, 

Makes woodland echoes ring; 
The mavis wild wi' mony a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest: 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' Care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae; 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

.May rove their sweets amang, 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang! 



. 




ROBERT BURNS. 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 193 

I was the Queen o' bonny France, 

Where happy I hae been; 
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, 

As blithe lay down at e'en; 
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there; 
Yet here I lie in foreign bands, 

And never-ending care. 

* * * * 

My son! my son! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine; 
And may those fortunes gild thy reign 

That ne'er wad blink on mine! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee: 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Remember him for me! 

Oh! soon to me may summer suns 

Nae mair light up the morn! 
Nae mair to me the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave; 
And the next flowers that deck the spring 

Bloom on my peaceful grave! 

OTHER WRITERS OF THIS AGE. 

POETS. 

Edward Young (1681=1765) owes his place in litera- 
ture to his poem "Night Thoughts." Many expressions 
from his writings have passed into the colloquial language 
of society, as: "procrastination is the thief of time," "all 
men think all men mortal but themselves." 

Allan Ramsey (1685=1758) was a Scotch poet, who 
wrote in the dialect of his country a pastoral poem, "The 
Gentle Shepherd." 

13 



194 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

John Gay (1688=1732) still retains favor by his "Fables." 
"The Beggar's Opera," the pioneer of English operatic 
works, has been condemned for its licentiousness. 

James Thomson (1900=1748) is the author of "The 
Seasons," a deservedly popular poem. Another of his 
poems, "The Castle of Indolence," is the finest of the 
many imitations of Spenser's style. 

William Collins (1721=1750) was a fine lyric poet, au- 
thor of "Ode to the Passions," a poem exquisitely felicitous 
in conception. The poet's life was unhappy; he died in- 
sane. 

Mark Akenside (1721=1770) is well remembered for 
his philosophical poem "Pleasures of the Imagination." 

Thomas Chatterton (1750=1770) was a precocious 

genius, who deceived nearly all the critics of his age by 
imposing upon them as manuscripts of the fifteenth cen- 
tury tales and poems written by himself. After a sad life, 
he committed suicide when but nineteen years of age. 

PROSE WRITERS. 

Richard Challoner (1691=1781), vicar apostolic of the 
London district, became a convert to the true faith at 
an early age. As a missionary priest, and later as a 
bishop, he was an admirable example of fidelity to duty. 
His principal work is his revision of the Rheims-Douay 
Bible, in which he substituted modern for antiquated 
terms. He also wrote "Think Well On't," "Memories," 
"Meditations," and many other useful works. 

Alban Butler (1700=1773) was a Catholic priest an.d an 
eminent hagiographer. His "Lives of the Saints," com- 
pleted after thirty years of labor, is a monumental work. 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 195 

Sir William Blackstone (1723=1780) was an eminent 
English jurist. His "Commentaries on the Laws of Eng- 
land" was the first systematic work which gave the ele- 
mentary and historical knowledge necessary for the study. 

Adam Smith (1723=1790) was the founder of the science 
of Political Economy in Europe. His "Wealth of Na- 
tions" is his most important work. It presents the gen- 
eral principles of Political Economy from the standpoint 
of international freedom of trade and is the only book 
which has been honored with a celebration on the occur- 
rence of the centennial of its publication. 

Letters of Junius. — A series of satirical letters directed 
against the Tory ministry appeared in the "London Ad- 
vocate" from 1769 to 1772. The annals of political contro- 
versy show nothing more fierce than these lampoons, and 
their influence was unbounded. Who Junius was is not 
definitely known, but Sir Philip Francis (1740-1818) is 
thought to be the writer of these famous letters. 

Horace Walpole (1719=1787), son of Sir Robert Wal- 
pole, the celebrated statesman, is best known by his "Let- 
ters" and "Memories." He also wrote a romance, "The 
Castle of Otranto." 

Richard Brinsley Sheridan (1751=1816) was a brilliant 
dramatist, and a great parliamentary orator. His prin- 
cipal plays are "The School for Scandal," "The Rivals" 
and "The Critic." As an orator his fame rests upon two 
speeches against Warren Hastings. 

David Hume (1711=1776) was a distinguished Scotch- 
man. His "History of Great Britain" displays beauty of 
style, but it is disfigured by the intolerant spirit with 
which it maligns Catholicism. In his philosophical works 
he is one of the most dangerous of infidel writers. 



196 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Edward Gibbon (1736=1794) is another great infidel 
writer, whose works are dangerous to the faith and 
offensive to the tastes of a Christian. In his "Decline 
and Fall of the Roman Empire" he openly assails Chris- 
tianity. 

William Robertson (1721=1793) wrote the "History of 
Scotland during the Reigns of Mary and James VI. ," 
"History of the Reign of Charles V," and "The History 
of America." He is a pleasing writer, but his statements 
cannot be relied upon, and his glaring errors of doctrine 
and of fact have caused his histories to be condemned in 
Rome. 

Daniel Defoe (1661=1731), author of "Robinson Cru- 
soe," is regarded by many as the founder of the English 
novel. He wrote two hundred and ten books and pam- 
phlets; of some of these Macaulay says: "They are worse 
than immoral ; quite beastly." Defoe displays unbounded 
hatred and ignorance of Catholic doctrine and practice. 

Samuel Richardson (1689=1767), is one of the prominent 
novelists of the eighteenth century. He wrote "Pamela," 
"Clarissa Harlowe," and "Sir Charles Grandison." It 
is said that Richardson intended to promote good morals, 
but his works are extremely sentimental and licentious. 

Henry Fielding (1707=1754) shares with Richardson 
his prominence as a novel-writer in this century. His 
principal works are "Joseph Andrews," "Tom Jones," 
"Jonathan Wild," and "Amelia," all unfit for perusal, 
owing to the coarseness of the pictures and the indelicacy 
of the language. 

Tobias George Smollett (1721=1771) was another writer 
whose works are spoiled by their licentiousness. His 
principal works are "Roderick Random," "Peregrine 
Pickle," and "Humphrey Clinker." 



EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 197 

Lawrence Sterne (1713=1768) is the author of "Tristram 

Shandy;" "Sentimental Journey," and a collection of 
- "Sermons." He shows himself a master in combining 
humor and pathos, but his works have glaring faults, both 
in taste and morality. 

Hannah More (1745=1833) wrote much both in prose 
and verse, and was at all times influential for good. Her 
principal works are "The Search for Happiness," 
"Coelebs in Search of a Wife," and "Practical Piety." 

Lady Mary Wortley Montague (1690=1762) was a 
friend of Pope, and a famous society woman of this cen- 
tury. She is known in literature by her "Letters." 




CHAPTER V. 

MODERN TIMES (1800-1895). 

In the early part of the present century the triumphal 
career of Napoleon Bonaparte excited the fears of Eng- 
land, causing her to take part in the wars waged between 
France and the other continental powers. In 1805 the 
great Admiral Nelson won the memorable naval battle of 
Trafalgar. At length the long contest ended in the down- 
fall of Napoleon in the battle of Waterloo, 181 5. 

During the eighteenth century the Irish Parliament, 
composed of Protestants of an exceedingly bitter type, 
had heaped upon the Catholics of Ireland an accumula- 
tion of the most unjust laws that had ever been expressed 
in the English tongue. In 1828, owing to the efforts of 
the Irish patriot, Daniel O'Connell, the Test Act was re- 
pealed, and the Catholic Emancipation Bill was passed, 
admitting Catholics to a place in Parliament. Victoria, 
niece of William IV., ascended the throne of England 
in 1837. The principal events of her reign are the res- 
toration of the Catholic Hierarchy in England; the war 
in the Crimea in 1854, fought by England and France in 
defense of Turkey against the attacks of Russia and won 
by the allies; the mutiny of the native troops in English 
pay (the Sepoys) in India; the disestablishment of the 
English State Church in Ireland, thus removing the 
heavy burden of the support of a Protestant church from 
a Catholic people. This reign has also witnessed the or- 
ganization of the Land League, for the purpose of effect- 
ing by legitimate means a permanent amelioration in the 



MODERN TIMES. 199 

condition of the Irish peasantry. In 1870, education was 
made compulsory, school boards were established in every 
district, and the support of the schools was provided for 
by taxation. 

In common with the rest of the civilized world, England 
has advanced in manufacturing and commercial pros- 
perity, and has benefited by the increase and perfecting 
of innumerable inventions which contribute to the com- 
fort and enjoyment of mankind. The printing press at 
the opening of the century was but a rude machine, in 
which little improvement had been made since the days 
of Caxton ; one hundred and fifty copies an hour was the 
limit of its working power. In our day, one machine 
driven by steam can cut, print and fold 25,000 newspapers 
in one hour. 

English literature, moulded by Shakespeare and his 
contemporaries, polished and refined by Pope and Ad- 
dison, has reached in this century the zenith of excellence. 
There never was a time when men wrote so much and 
so well. Unfortunately both prose and poetry are often 
made the vehicle of many dangerous theories and false 
sentiments. Under cover of liberality are disguised 
thoughts against the divine teachings of our religion; 
while again men of profound scientific attainments will 
teach openly that the truths of science are incompatible 
with those of revealed religion. The result is an alarm- 
ing growth of agnosticism and infidelity. For us Catho- 
lics when we see the inextricable maze of error in which 
others are entangled, we should revere and love the more 
our infallible guide, we should rejoice in the possession 
of our Holy Faith and feel that for it all the treasures of 
literature, science and philosophy could give but a poor 
exchange. 



200 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

William Wordsworth (1770=1850). 

"Him who uttered nothing base." — Tennyson. 

"Whatever the world may think of me or of my poetry is 
now of little consequence; but one thing is a comfort of my 
old age, that none of my works contain a line which I should 
wish to blot out because it panders to the baser passions of our 
nature. This is a comfort to me; I can do no mischief by my 
works when I am gone." — William Wordsworth. 

William Wordsworth was born in Cumberland, Eng- 
land, in 1770. He was left an orphan very early in life, 
and in his ninth year was sent to a school in Hawkshend, 
the most picturesque district in Lancashire. In this place, 
so richly adorned by the hand of Nature, his love for the 
beauty which surrounded him was rapidly developed. 
After having taken his degree at Cambridge in 1791, he 
went to France and eagerly embraced the ideas of the 
champions of liberty in that country. His political senti- 
ments were soon modified, however, and he settled down 
into steady conservatism. At the death of Southey, in 
1843, Wordsworth was made poet laureate. 

He was from the first in easy circumstances, and had 
a small fortune. Happily married, he lived peacefully on 
the margin of a beautiful lake, in sight of noble moun- 
tains, in the pleasant retirement of an elegant house, 
amidst the admiration and attentions of distinguished and 
chosen friends, engrossed by contemplations which no 
storm came to distract, and by poetry which was produced 
without any hindrance. In this deep calm he listened to 
his own thoughts. 

"To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears." 

He saw a grandeur, a beauty, a teaching in the trivial 
events which weave the woof of our most commonplace 
days. He needed not, for the sake of emotion, either 




WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



MODERN TIMES. 203 

splendid sights or unusual actions. After a tranquil and 
uneventful life he died at Rvdal Mount, in 1850. 

Wordsworth may not be a popular poet, but he will be 
loved by those who have had a wide range of reading and 
who bring to him an appreciative mind. Never has there 
been a poet more reverently loved by those who have 
given him deep study, and less liked by those who know 
him but little. We do not find perfection in Wordsworth, 
not the sweet cadence of melodies that require no intel- 
lectual effort; not poems, like the paintings of some 
moderns, where one finds all the skill and color that, could 
be desired, but not the soul of the artist. It is true that 
his theory of poetic thought, without poetic expression, 
was an exaggeration, and he himself in some of his finer 
passages did not adhere to the theory. He maintained 
that the colloquial language of rustics was the most phil- 
osophical and enduring which the dictionary affords, and 
the fittest for verse of every description. When his finest 
verse is brought to the test of his principle, they agree 
no better than light and darkness. He describes thus, 
the effects of the pealing organ in King's College Chapel: 

"But from the arms of silence — list! O list — 
The music bursteth into second life; 
The notes luxuriate every stone is kissed 
With sound or ghost of sound, in mazy strife!" 

This is to write like a splendid poet, but it is not to 
write as rustics talk. 

His earliest works were in imitation of the style of 
Pope and Spenser. His "Lyrical Ballads," published in 
1798, were intended as an experiment on a new system of 
poetry. They were, through principle, written on the 
humblest subjects, and in the language of the humblest 
life; but the attempt was not a success. "Peter Bell," 



204 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

published in 1819, was received with a shout of ridicule. 
It is meant to be serious, but there is so much farcical 
absurdity of detail and language that the reader revolts. 
His longest poem, "The Excursion," is a fragment of an 
unfinished epic. 

The religious opinions of Wordsworth, especially in 
some of his sonnets, we cannot accept, but we count it a 
pity that such a mind had not the light of faith. Should we 
learn to love Wordsworth's poetry, and understand how 
his thought is to be valued above poetic chaff, we must 
thank Heaven for the precious gift. As in painting, he who 
sees through the color and form and grasps the fullness of 
what they were intended to represent; or he, who in music 
discerns over and above the melody a deeper meaning 
coming from the soul of the master, is content that others 
may flatter themselves that a daub or a tune is painting 
and music, as for them it is: so one who hears a poetic 
voice speaking from the the very soul of living nature 
envies not those who beguile themselves with its faintest 
echoes. 

There must have been something very noble in the 
mind of Wordsworth who, though not a Catholic, could 
write these lines on the Blessed Virgin: 

Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrosst, 
With the least shade of thought to sin allied; 
Woman! above all women glorified, 
Our tainted nature's solitary boast; 
Purer than foam on central ocean tost; 
Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak, strewn 
With fancied roses, than the unblemished moon 
Before her wane begins on heaven's blue const, 
Thy image falls to earth. Yet some I ween, 
Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend, 
As to a visible power, in which did blend 



MODERN TIMES. 205 

All that was mixed and reconciled in thee 
Of mother's love with maiden purity, 
Of high with low, celestial with terrene! 

We find in him the stirring, clear voice of a man of 
character, it rings out in firm tones which pierce into the 
heart, and we say, this man's thought is true, and since I 
should love God's nature so well, I should love and serve 
Nature's God the better. Familiarity with his thoughts 
will give to them a significance that ever grows deeper, 
and will find them endowed with unsuspected beauty. 

TO A SKYLARK. 
Up with me! up with me into the clouds! 

For thy song-, Lark,- is strong; 
Up with me, up with me into the clouds! 

Singing, singing, 
With all the heavens about thee ringing; 

Lift me, guide me, till I find 
That spot which seems so to thy mind! 

I have walked through wildernesses dreary, 
And to-day my heart is weary; 
Had I now the wings of a fairy, 
Up to thee would I fly. 
There is madness about thee, and joy divine 

In that song of thine; 
Up with me, up with me, high and high, 
To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 

Joyous as morning 

Thou art laughing and scorning; 
Thou hast a nest, for thy love and thy rest; 
And, though little troubled with sloth, 
Drunken Lark! thou wouldst be loth 
To be such a traveller as I. 
Happy, happy liver! 
With a soul as strong as a mountain river, 
Pouring out praise to th' Almighty Giver, 

Joy and jollity be with us both! 



206 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven, 

Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind; 

But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, 

As full of gladness and as free as heaven, 

I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 

And hope for higher raptures when life's day is done. 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 
I. 
There was a time when meadow, grove and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight, 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it has been of yore; — 
Turn whereso'er I may, 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more! 

II. 

The rainbow comes and goes, 

And lovely is the rose, — 

The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare; 

Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair; 

The sunshine is a glorious birth; 

But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 

III. 
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young lambs bound, 

As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief; 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And I again am strong. 
The cataracts blow their trumpets- from the steep, — 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, 
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 



MODERN TIMES. 207 

And all the earth is gay; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity, 
And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday; — 
Thou child of joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, 
Thou happy shepherd boy! 

IV. 

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 
My heart is at your festival, 

My head hath its coronal, 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
Oh evil nay! if I were sullen 
While the earth herself is adorning, 

This sweet May morning; 
And the children are pulling, 

On every side, 
In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm: — 
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 
— But there's a tree, of many one, 
A single field which I have looked upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is gone: 
The pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat: 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 

V. 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: 
The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And cometh from afar; 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness, 



LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home: 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing boy, 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy; 
The youth, who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended; 
At length the man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

VI. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
And, even with something of a mother's mind, 
And no unworthy aim, 

The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster child, her innate man, 

Forget the glories he hath known, 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

VII. 

Behold the child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years darling of a pigmy size! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
With light upon him from his father's eyes! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral; 

And this hath now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 
But it will not be long 



MODERN TIMES. 209 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part; 
Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" 
With all the persons, down to palsied age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

VIII. 
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensity; 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage; thou eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! 

On whom those truths do rest, 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find; 
Thou, over whom thy immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
A presence which is not to be put by; 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring th' inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife. 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 

IX. 
O joy! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live, 
That Nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benedictions: not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blessed; 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 



210 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast; 
Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings; 
Black misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised! 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 

Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing: 
Uphold us — cherish — and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal silence: truths that wake. 

To perish never; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 

Nor man, nor boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy! 

Hence in a season of calm weather, 
Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither; 
Can in a moment travel thither, — 
And see the children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

X. 

Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 
And let the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound! 

We, in thought, will join your throng, 
Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May] 



MODERN TIMES. 211 

What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now forever taken from my sight, 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind, 

In the primal sympathy 

Which having been, must ever be; 

In the soothing thoughts, that spring 

Out of human suffering; 

In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XL 

And oh ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 

Think not of any severing of our loves! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 

I only have relinquished one delight, 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the brooks, which down their channels fret, 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they: 

The innocent brightness of a new-born day 

Is lovely yet; 
The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live; 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears; 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 

Alfred Tennyson (1810=1892). 

"Tennyson is the most faultless of modern poets in techni- 
cal execution, but one whose verse is more remarkable for 
artistic perfection than for dramatic action and inspired fervor. 
His adroitness surpasses his invention." — Stedman. 

Alfred Tennyson, the son of an Anglican clergyman, 
was born in Lincolnshire, England, in 1810. He was 



212 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, and he resided 
for many years at Aldworth, in Sussex, with a summer 
residence at Farringfdrd on the Isle of Wight. His early 
productions were not well received, and the poet profiting 
by the rebuff, buried himself among his books, and for 
ten years studied laboriously with the view of fitting him- 
self for his chosen career. On his reappearance he soared 
at once to the highest place in the poetic firmament. In 
the year 1850 he was appointed Poet Laureate; and in 
1855 Oxford conferred on him the degree of D. C. L. 

Tennyson was a man of refined tastes, wide culture, 
profound thought, and studious habits; the beauty and 
purity of his works are but reflections of the character 
of the man. He died at Aldworth, October 6, 1892. The 
close of his life was in keeping with the thoughts ex- 
pressed in his last poem, entitled: 

CROSSING THE BAR. 
Sunset and evening star, 

And one clear call for me! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar 

When I put out to sea! 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam, 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell, 

And after that the dark! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell 

When I embark! 

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crossed the bar. 




ALFRED TENNYSON. 



MODERN TIMES. 215 

Among his finest poems are "The May Queen," "Locks- 
ley Hall," "The Princess," "In Memoriam," "Maud," 
"Enoch Arden," and "Idyls of the King." His master- 
piece, "Idyls of the King," cost him the labor of twenty 
years. It is a rendering of the old Arthurian legends into 
exquisitely musical verse. In this epic of chivalry Tenny- 
son has caught the mediaeval spirit; no other poet has 
written so beautifully of the much-maligned Middle Ages. 
"In Memoriam," his most characteristic work, is a lament 
for the untimely death of his friend, Arthur Henry Hal- 
lam, son of the great historian. His dramas, "Queen 
Mary," "Harold," and "Thomas a Becket," are false to 
history, and are bitterly hostile to Catholicism. 

Tennyson is essentially a lyric poet, a graceful writer, 
a singer of many sweet melodies; but the beauty there 
is rather that of the cold mosaic than of "the human face 
divine," or if it is the beauty of the human countenance, a 
peaceful or happy soul does not beam through it. In 
his verse we seem ever to hear a sigh after something 
that is hopeless, ever a wail for sad days gone by — often 
most beautifully uttered, yet only a regretful wail with 
very little of a brightening glimmer of joy to look for- 
ward to in life or after it. Sadness is an element of poetry, 
grief and sorrow go home to the heart of every human 
being, but not the sadness of despair, not the gloom of 
endless death. True human sorrow has in it a gleam of 
hope, but "Tennyson's Calvary has no Easter." 

The motive that is lacking in modern literature and in 
art is faith — a living, energizing faith in the fact that all 
this unintelligible tangle of the natural world is in very 
truth working together for good; a faith stronger far 
than the faint-hearted trust of Tennyson as thus ex- 
pressed : 



216 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

"O, yet we trust that somehow good 
Will be the final good of ill. 

Behold, we know not anything; 
I can but trust that good shall fall 
At last — far off — at last, to all, 
And every winter change to spring." 

In 1875 Tennyson appeared in a new role, that of 
dramatic poet. "Queen Mary" was received with re- 
spectful and general dissatisfaction, a fate that "Harold" 
shared in 1877. "Becket," with which a theater was 
opened in New York by the Irving company, was only an 
accidental success, and the ablest critics deem it a read- 
ing not an acting play. In this play, as in "Queen Mary," 
Tennyson places the prominent character in a false light, 
thereby incurring the censure of Catholics. 

Some have found in Tennyson many meanings, and 
remarkable among them is a spiritual meaning, which 
has met the approbation of Tennyson himself; it becomes 
therefore for the future a part of the "Idyls." Thus in the 
Passing of Arthur: 

He passes to be king among the dead, 
And after healing of his grievous wound 
He comes again. 

This hope is based upon the Christian belief in a resur- 
rection. Being sorely wounded, Arthur commands Sir 
Bedivere to throw the brand Excalibur into the lake, and 
then to report what happens. After being twice faithless, 
through temptation of the riches of the hilt, Bedivere 
flings Excalibur into the mere, and reports to Arthur: 

Then with both hands I flung wheeling him, 
But when I looked again, behold, an arm 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, 
That caught him by the hilt and brandished him 
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. 



MODERN TIMES. 217 

The spiritual weapon of the soul having smitten the 
enemies encountered in the battle of life is returned to 
religion, for there is no need of it in the isle of rest, where 
there is no warfare, but long peace and ease. Arthur is 
borne by Bedivere to the shore where lies a black barge, 
whose 

Decks are dense with stately forms, 
Black stoled, black hooded, like a dream; by these 
Three queens with crowns of gold. 
These are the three queens who should help Arthur in 
his need; the three theological virtues, now come to the 
assistance of the faithful soul passing to the eternity be- 
yond. Bedivere places Arthur on the barge, whence 
Arthur addresses him; 

The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 

And God fulfills himself in many ways, 

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 

If thou shouldst never see my face again, 

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 

Than this world dreams of. 

The time has come when the soul passes from the old 
order, life in the flesh, to the new order beyond space 
and time. Slowly the sable barge moves from the shore, 
and with its wailing figures vanishes beyond the horizon. 
The spiritual fight is over, 

And the new sun rose bringing the new year. 

THE LOTOS EATERS. 
"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, 
"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." 
In the afternoon they came unto a land, 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All/ round the coast the languid air did swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; 
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. 



218 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; 

And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, 

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow. 

From the inner land far off, three mountain-tops, 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 

Stood sunset-flushed: and, dew'd with showery drops, 

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 

In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 

Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale 

And meadow, sat with slender galingale: 

A land where all things always seem'd the same! 

And round about the keel with faces pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, 

The mild-eyed, melancholy Lotos-eaters came. 



Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, 

Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 

To each, but whoso did receive of them, 

And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 

Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave 

On alien shores; and of his fellow spake. 

His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; 

And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, 

And music in his ears his beating heart did make. 



They sat them down upon the yellow sand, 
Between the sun and moon upon the shore; 
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore 
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, "We will return no more;" 
And all at once they sang, "Our island home 
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam." 



MODERN TIMES. 219 

ST. AGNES. 
Deep on the convent-roof the snows 

Are sparkling to the moon: 
My -breath to heaven like vapor goes: 

May my soul follow soon! 
The shadows of the convent-towers 

Slant down the snowy sward, 
Still creeping with the creeping hours 

That lead me to my Lord: 
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 

As are the frosty skies, 
Or this first snowdrop of the year 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soiled and dark, 

To yonder shining ground; 
As this pale taper's earthly spark, 

To yonder argent round; 
So sbows my soul before the Lamb, 

My spirit before Thee; 
So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, 

Thro' all yon starlight keen, 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors; 

The flashes come and go; 
All heaven bursts her starry floors, 

And strews her lights below, 
And deepens on and up! the gates 

Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 
The sabbaths of Eternity, 

One sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the shining sea— 

The Bridegroom with his bride! 



220 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

John Keats (1795=1821).— John Keats was a poet of 

the highest promise, and in his short life contributed 
many noble compositions to English poetry. He was of 
lowly origin, weak in health and scantily befriended, yet 
his soul thirsted for beauty; and his creed, the substance 
of his religion, was — 

"That first in beauty should be first in might." 

It was his misfortune to be either extravagantly praised 
or unmercifully condemned; and literary disappointment, 
together with a constitutional tendency to consumption, 
brought him to an untimely grave. His principal works 
are "Endymion," "Hyperion," "The Eve of St. Agnes," 
"Ode on a Grecian Urn," and "Ode to a Nightingale"; 
these are characterized by a profusion of figurative lan- 
guage, often exquisitely beautiful and luxurious, but 
sometimes fantastical. After publishing his-third volume, 
he sailed for Italy in 1820, accompanied by his friend, 
Severn. He established himself at Rome with Severn, 
but, in spite of the devoted care and kindness of this ad- 
mirable friend, he died February 23, 1821. John Keats 
was buried in Rome, and on his gravestone is the in- 
scription which he told his friend to place there: 

"Here lies one whose name was writ in water." 

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk; 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 

But being too happy in thy happiness — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 

In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 



MODERN TIMES. 221 

Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 
******* 

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! 

No hungry generations tread thee down; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 

The same that oft-times hath 
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam 

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 

Past the near meadows, over the still streams, 
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 

In the next valley-glades: 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 

Fled is that music: — do I wake or sleep? 

Robert Browning (1812=1889). The important facts 
in the life of this poet are, briefly stated, as follows : He 
was born in Peckham, a suburb of London, May 7, 181 2. 
His parents were cultured and intelligent, of mixed de- 
scent from English, Scottish and German ancestors. His 
school education was not extensive. He attended pri- 
vate schools until he reached his fourteenth year, and 
afterwards attended a few lectures at University College, 
London. In 1838 he visited Russia and Italy, and con- 
ceived so warm an affection for the latter country that 
it became his favorite haunt. 

September 6, 1846, he married the gifted poetess, Eliza- 
beth Barrett, and the relations which existed between 



222 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

them form almost an ideal of married life. In 1861 Mrs. 
Browning died, and a few months later Robert Brown- 
ing wrote his hymn to death, "Prospice." He died De- 
cember 12, 1889, and on the last day of the year was 
buried in Westminster Abbey. 

Browning's powers are variously estimated. Many 
place him next to Tennyson, others, more enthusiastic, 
reckon him the greatest poet since Shakespeare, while 
not a few contend that his art is so deficient as almost to 
exclude him from the circle of poets. His writings are 
certainly obscure, rugged and unmusical, but original, 
strong and earnest. Of "Sordello," the story of a soul, it 
is said that Tennyson found in its six thousand lines but 
two which were intelligible, and these are not true; they 
are the first and the last: 

Who will may hear Sordello's story told. 
Who would has heard Sordello's story told. 

In his portraits of priests and monks, Browning rouses 
repellent instincts in every Catholic heart. 

His most popular poems are "The Pied Piper of 
Ilamelin," "How they Brought the Good News from 
Ghent to Aix," "A Blot on the Scutcheon," and "Pippa 
I 'asses." 

PROSPICE. 1 

Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat, 

The mist in my face, 
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 

I am nearing the place, 
The power of the night, the press of the storm, 

The post of the foe; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form 



'Prospice means "look forward." 







ROBERT BROWNING. 



MODERN TIMES. 225 

Yet the strong man must go: 
For the journey is done and the summit attained, 

And the barriers fall, 
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, 

The reward of it ail. 
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more, 

The best and the last! 
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, 

And bade me creep past. 
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers, 

The heroes of old, 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears 

Of pain, darkness, and cold. 
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, 

The black minute's at end, 
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, 

Shall dwindle, shall blend, 
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 

Then a light, then thy breast, 

thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, 

And with God be the rest! 

A FACE. 
If one could have- that little head of hers 
Painted upon a background of pale gold, 
Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers! 
No shade encroaching on the matchless mould 
Of those two lips, which should be opening soft 
In the pure profile; not as when she laughs, 
For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft 
Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's 
Burthen of honey-colored buds, to kiss 
And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this. 
Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround, 
How it should waver, on the pale gold ground, 
Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts! 

1 know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts 
Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb 
Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb: 
But these are only massed there, I should think, 

15 



226 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Waiting to see some wonder momently 
Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky 
(That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by), 
All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye 
Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1809=1861).— The earliest 
years of this writer were passed under the happiest in- 
fluences. She was educated with great care by private 
tutors, and her gift for learning was so great that it is 
said she could read Homer in the original at eight years 
of age. When about fifteen, she was so severely injured 
by a fall while riding, that she was an invalid for years. 
One compensation for the comparative seclusion of her 
life was the acquirement of that wealth of ancient lore 
which has added to her poetry a classic grace and finish. 

Her most important poems are "Aurora Leigh" and 
"Casa Guidi Windows.'' The latter is a specimen of the 
injustice and abuse to which even genius and culture 
may descend. It is a description of events in Italy during 
the revolution, and in it she reviles the saintly Pope Pius 
IX. with all the acrimony of her heart. The "Sonnets 
from the Portuguese," which in reality are original, appeal 
to the most delicate and tender feelings of the soul. 

THE SLEEP. 

Of all the thoughts of God that are 
Borne inward unto souls afar, 

Along the Psalmist's music deep, 
Now tell me if that any is 
For gift or grace surpassing this — 

"He giveth His beloved sleep"? 

What would we give to our beloved? 
The hero's heart to be unmoved — 
The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep — 



MODERN TIMES. 227 

The senate's shout to patriot's vows — 
The monarch's crown, to light the brows? 
"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

What do we give to our beloved? 
A little faith, all undisproved — 

A little dust to overweep — 
And bitter memories, to make 
The whole earth blasted for our sake!- 

"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, 
But have no tune to charm away 

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep, 
But never doleful dream again 
Shall break the happy slumber when 

"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

O earth, so full of dreary noises! 
men, with wailing in your voices! 
delved gold, the wailers heap! 

strife, curse, that o'er it fall! 
God makes a silence through you all, 

And "giveth His beloved sleep." 

His dew drops mutely on the hill; 
His cloud above it saileth still, 

Though on its slope men toil and reap. 
More softly than the dew is shed, 
Or cloud is floated overhead, 

"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

Yea! men may wonder while they scan 
A living, thinking, feeling man 

In such a rest his heart to keep; 
But angels say — and through the word 

1 ween their blessed smile is heard — 
"He giveth His beloved sleep," 



228 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

For me, my heart, that erst did go 
Most like a tired child at a show, 

That sees through tears the juggler's leap, 
Would now its wearied vision close- 
Would, childlike, on His love repose 

Who "giveth His beloved sleep." 

And friends! — dear friends! — when it shall be 
That this low breath is gone from me, 

And round my bier ye come to weep, 
Let one, most loving of you all, 
Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall" — 

"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand 
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore 
Alone upon the threshold of my door 
Of individual life I shall command 
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
Serenely in the sunshine as before, 
Without the sense of that which I forebore, — 
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land 
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine 
With pulses that beat double. What I do 
And what I dream include thee, as the wine 
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue 
God for myself, He hears that name of thine, 
And sees within my eyes the tears of two. 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways: 
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 
For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of every day's 
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ; 
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise; 



MODERN TIMES. 229 

I love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith; 

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 

With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath, 

Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772=1834). — Samuel Tay- 
lor Coleridge was born at Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire, 
England, in 1772. His childhood was a strange one; 
when but three years of age he read the Bible, when but 
six, he had read "Belisarius," "Philip QuarH" and the 
"Arabian Nights." He studied at Cambridge, 1791-94, 
with some interruptions, and left without a degree. He 
had no ambition and at one time settled upon shoemaking 
as a means of escaping from school. With Southey and 
others he formed the project of establishing a commun- 
istic society on the Susquehanna River, but this plan was 
abandoned owing to want of funds. In 1795 he married 
Sara Fricker, the sister of Southey 's wife, and during the 
first three years of his married life he lived at Keswick, 
in Cumberland, near the Lakes, where Wordsworth and 
Southey resided. Hence the appellation of "Lake poets" 
given to the three distinguished friends. 

In 1796, he took opium to allay neuralgic pain, and 
this laid the foundation of a habit which exerted a bane- 
ful influence upon him. In 1806, he became the guest 
of Mr. Gilman, a physician of London, with whom he 
spent the rest of his life. 

The literary character of Coleridge resembles some 
vast unfinished palace; all is beautiful and rich, but noth- 
ing is complete: yet the wonderful charm of his conver- 
sation, the spell of his enthusiasm, influenced the opin- 
ions of some the finest minds of his time. Few men ever 
possessed more learning and knowledge than he pos- 



230 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

sessed, and yet how few of his works are in any way 
worthy of his genius! The poem by which he is best 
known is "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," a strange 
narrative in which an air of antiquity harmonizes with 
the spectral character of the events. The "Ode to Mont 
Blanc" is one of the most sublime productions of the 
kind in the English language. His "Lectures" on Shakes- 
peare are unrivaled in their power of giving an insight 
into the breadth and grasp of Shakespeare's genius. The 
poem "Christabel" is exquisitely versified, but is in an un- 
finished condition. Some of his minor poems for their 
richness of coloring and for their perfect finish can be 
compared only to the flowers which spring up into love- 
liness at the touch of nature. 

ODE TO MONT BLANC. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star 

In his steep course? So long he seems to pause 

On thy hald awful head, O sovran Blanc! 

The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 

Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form! 

Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 

How silently! Around thee and above, 

Deep is the air, and dark, substantial black, 

An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it 

As with a wedge! But when I look again, 

It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 

Thy habitation from Eternity! 

dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to my bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought; entranced in prayer 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wert blending with my thought. 
Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy. 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, 



MODERN TIMES. 231 

Into mighty vision passing — there, 

As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven! 

Awake my soul! not only passive praise 
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake, 
Voice of sweet soug! Awake, my heart, awake! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale! 
Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by hosts of stars, 
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink: 
Companion of the morning star at dawn, 
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald: wake, oh wake, and utter praise! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? 

And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
Forever shattered and the same forever? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? 
And who commanded (and the silence came), 
Here let the billows stiffen and have rest? 

Ye ice-falls! ye, that from the mountain's brow 
Adorn enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once, amid their maddest plunge! 
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven 
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? — 
God! Let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
Answer! and let the ice- plains echo, God! 
God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice! 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! 



232 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! 
Ye signs and wonders of the element! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! 

Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, 
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast, — 
Thou, too, again, stupendous Mountain! thou 
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward, from thy base. 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest like a vapory cloud 
To rise before me. — Rise, oh, ever rise, 
Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth! 
Thou Kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices praises God. 

George Gordon Byron (1788=1824). — George Gor- 
don, Lord Byron, was born in London in 1788. His 
early childhood was spent in alternations of wealth and 
poverty, until the death of his grand-uncle, the fifth Lord 
Byron; then he inherited, with the baronial title, large 
estates and the beautiful residence of Newstead Abbey, 
near Nottingham. This abbey was originally an Au- 
gustinian monastery, founded by Henry II., and granted 
to John Byron by Henry VIII. at the time of the spolia- 
tion of the monasteries. 

Byron studied at Marrow and at Oxford, where he be- 
came notorious for the irregularities of his conduct. Wr 
abandoned England in 1S16 and led a life of dissipation 




LORD BYRON. 



MODERN TIMES. 235 

on the continent. In 1823 he joined the Greek insurgents 
at Cephalonia, and in the following year became the 
commander-in-chief at Missolonghi. Here he was at- 
tacked by a fit of epilepsy and died in 1824. He was 
buried at Newstead Abbey. 

Byron was a great genius, but he was not a great 
poet. His works contain some majestic descriptions, 
fine imagery and noble sentiments, but their general tone 
is misanthropic, irreligious and immoral. His finest poem 
is "Childe Harold." Among the best of his other works 
are "The Dream," "The Prisoner of Chillon," "Mazeppa," 
"The Giaour," and "The Siege of Corinth." His longest 
and most brilliant poem is "Don Juan," but it is unfit to 
read on account of its coarseness. Even where it is free 
from this defect it is imbued with cold and sneering cyn- 
icism in regard to all the nobler qualities of human 
nature. 

CHILDE HAROLD. CANTO III. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 

The margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 

Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep; and drawing near, 

There breathes a living fragrance from the shore 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear 

Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more. 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 

His life an infancy, and sings his fill; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 

Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill; 

But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil, 



236 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven, 

If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven 

That in our aspirations to be great, 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state 

And claim a kindred with you; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 

In us such love and reverence from afar 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. 

All heaven and earth are still, though not in sleep, 

But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep; 

All heaven and earth are still: from the high host 
Of stars, to the lulled lake and mountain-coast, 

All is concentred in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor life is lost, 

But hath a part of being and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defense. 

Thomas Moore (1779=1852). — Thomas Moore was 
born in Dnblin and was educated at Trinity College, in 
his native city. Being a Catholic, many of the avenues 
to public distinction were then closed to him by the in- 
vidious laws that oppressed his country and his religion. 
After distinguishing himself at the University of Dublin, 
he went to London with the intention of studying law, 
but he soon began his career as a poet. He first appeared 
as the translator of the "Odes of Anacreon." This work 
obtained for him an introduction into fashionable life. 
J lis many natural gifts made him a favorite in society; 
great conversational talents, an agreeable voice, and a 
fair degree of musical skill enabled him to give effect 
to his songs. I)iiring his entire life he was the spoiled 
child of n< >pularity. 



MODERN TIMES. 237 

His "Travels of an Irish Gentleman in Search of a Re- 
ligion" is a controversial work which deserves especial 
notice. In the arrangement and moulding of the mat- 
ter of this work, we see the workings of a mind eminently 
active, vigorous and original. His poetical writings con- 
sist chiefly of lyrics, the most famous among them 
being the "Irish Melodies." In 1817 appeared the cele- 
brated Oriental romance, "Lalla Rookh." The prose of 
the work is inimitably beatiful; the style is sparkling with 
Oriental gems and perfumed with Oriental spices. The 
story forms a setting to four poems, "The Veiled 
Prophet," "The Fire Worshippers," "Paradise and the 
Peri," and "The Light of the Harem," all of an Eastern 
character, and the first two to some extent historical. 

Moore's excellence consists in the gracefulness of 
his thoughts and sentiments, and the music of his versifica- 
tion. His great fault is the irreverence and indelicacy 
of some of his poems. During the last three years of his 
life he suffered a lingering disease, which gradually ener- 
vated his mind and finally reduced him to a state of im- 
becility. He died in 1852. 

THOU ART, O GOD! 
Thou art, O God! the life and light 

Of all this wondrous world we see; 
Its glow by day, its smile by night, 

Are but reflections caught from Thee. 
Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine, 
And all things fair and bright are Thine. 

When day, with farewell beam, delays 
Among the opening clouds of even, 

And we can almost think we gaze 
Through golden vistas into Heaven; 

Those lines that make the sun's decline 

So soft, so radiant, Lord! are Thine. 



238 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

When night, with wings of starry gloom, 
O'ershadows all the earth and skies ; 

Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume 
Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes; — 

That sacred gloom, those fires divine, 

So grand, so countless, Lord! are Thine. 

When youthful spring around us breathes, 
Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh; 

And every flower the summer wreathes 
Is born beneath that kindling eye. 

Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine, 

And all things fair and bright are Thine. 

ERIN AND JUDEA. 
Yes, sad one of Sion! if closely resembling 

In shame and in sorrow thy withered-up heart, 
If drinking deep, deep of the same cup of trembling. 

Could make us thy children, our parent thou art. 
Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken, 

And fallen from her head is the once royal crown, 
In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken, 

And while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down. 
Like thine do her exiles, 'mid dreams of returning, 

Die far from the home it were life to behold; 
Like thine do her sons in the day of their mourning. 

Remember the bright things that blessed them of old. 
Ah! well may we call her, like thee, "the forsaken," 

Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves; 
And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken, 

Have tones 'mid their mirth like the wind over graves. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792=1822), the most poetical 
of poets, was the eldest son of a baronet. At the age 
of eighteen years his ''Defense of Atheism" caused his 
expulsion from ( )xford. He was drowned in the Bay "I 
Spezzia, Italy, in 1822. He wrote several dramas, but 
he is essentially a lyric poet, and as such is unexcelled. 



MODERN TIMES. 239 

"The Skylark," "The Sensitive Plant," and "The Cloud," 
are unequaled for beauty of language. 

THE CLOUD. 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 

From the sea and the streams; 
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noon-day dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet birds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under; 
And then again I dissolve it in rain; 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below, 

And their great pines groan aghast; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, 

Lightning, my pilot, sits; 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder; 

It struggles and howls at fits. 
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, 

This pilot is guiding me, 
Lured by the love of the genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 

The spirit he loves remains; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

That orbed maiden with white fire laden, 

Whom mortals call the moon, 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor 



240 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

By the midnight breezes strewn; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer; 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 

Till the calm rivers, lakes and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

Thomas Campbell (1777=1844) was distinguished for 
both prose and poetry. His most important work is 
"The Pleasure of Hope," in which graceful diction and 
careful finish are blended with ardent poetical sensibility ; 
but he excels in his lyrics, which are charming in their 
ideal loveliness and depth of feeling. Among the best 
of these are "Lochiel's Warning," "Hohenlinden," "Ger- 
trude of Wyoming," and "Ye Mariners of England." 

HOHENLINDEN. 
On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight 
When the drum beat at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neighed 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven; 
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven; 
And louder than the bolts of Heaven 
Far flashed the red artillery. 



MODERN TIMES. 241 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

"Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 

Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
"Who rush to glory or the grave! 
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, 

And charge with all thy chivalry. 

Few, few shall part where many meet! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet; 
And every turf beneath their feet 

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

Adelaide Anne Proctor (1824=1864), daughter of the 
poet "Barry Cornwall," has won an enduring place 
in the hearts of all lovers of chaste, refined and tender 
poetry. In 1851 she became a convert to the Catholic 
faith and her verse echoes the piety which animated her 
life. Her works appear in two volumes, entitled "Legends 
and Lyrics," and "A Chaplet of Verses." 

THROUGH PEACE TO LIGHT. 

I do not ask, Lord! that life may be 

A pleasant road; 
I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me 

Aught of its load; 
I do not ask that flowers should always spring 

Beneath my feet; 
I know too well the poison and the sting 

Of things too sweet. 
16 



242 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

For one thing- only, Lord, dear Lord! I plead: 

Lead me aright — 
Though strength should falter, and though heart should bleed — 

Through peace to light. 
I do not ask, Lord, that Thou shouldst shed 

Full radiance here; 
Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread 

Without a fear. 

I do not ask my cross to understand. 

My way to see — 
Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand, 

And follow Thee. 
Joy is like restless day, but peace divine 

Like quiet night. 
Lead me, Lord! till perfect day shall shine 

Through peace to light. 

Dennis Florence MacCarthy (1818=1882) was a Catho 
lie poet, distinguished fcr the graceful tenderness and 
religious tone of his verse. He is also noted for his 
translations from Calderon, the Spanish Shakespeare. He 
excelled in lyric poetry, and published several volumes 
of poems. 

SUMMER LONGINGS. 
Ah! my heart is weary waiting, 

Waiting for the May — 
Waiting for the pleasant rambles 
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, 
With the woodbine alternating, 

Scent the dewy way. 
Ah! my heart is weary waiting, 
Waiting for the May — 

Ah! my heart is sick with longing, 
Longing for the May, — 
Longing to escape from study 
To the young face fair and ruddy. 

And the thousand charms belonging 



MODERN TIMES. 243 

To the summer's day. 
Ah! my heart is sick with longing, 
Longing for the May. 



Waiting sad, dejected, weary, 

Waiting for the May — 
Spring goes by with wasted warnings, — 
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings, — 
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 

Life still ebbs away; 
Man is ever weary, weary, 
Waiting for the May ! 

Christina Georgiana Rossetti (1830=1894), sister of the 
poet and artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti, was born in 
London, December 5, 1830. Her poems are of varying 
worth, betraying the writer's earnest, impulsive, some- 
what inconsiderate nature. 

WEARY. 

I would have gone; God bade me stay; 

I would have worked; God bade me rest. 
He broke my will from day to day; 

He read my yearnings unexpressed, 
And said them nay. 

Now I would stay; God bids me go; 

Now I would rest; God bids me work. 
He breaks my heart, tossed to and fro; 

My soul is vexed with thoughts that lurk, 
And vex it so! 

I go, Lord, where Thou sendest me; 

Day after day I plod and moil; 
But, Christ my God, when will it be 

That I may let alone my toil, 
And rest with Thee? 



244 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Robert Southey (1774=1835) was one of the most 
prolific writers of the age, yet he is said to have burned 
in ten years more verses than he published during his 
whole life. In biography he has not been surpassed. His 
best works are "Life of Nelson," "Life of Cowper," and 
"Life of Wesley." His best poems are "Thalaba" and 
"The Curse of Kehama." 

John Keble (1792=1866), an Anglican clergyman, is 
best known by his "Christian Year." This is a collection 
of religious poems adapted to the liturgical services of 
the year. With Newman and Pusey, Keble had a large 
share in the Tractarian movement. 

Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828=1882) is widely known 
through his designs for illustrated works. With Holman 
Hunt, Millais and others, he founded the "Pre-Raphaelite" 
school of painting. As a poet he is associated with a 
school of latter-day singers. He wrote "The Blessed 
Damozel," "Alary Magdalene," "The Sea-Limits," and 
other poems. 

Samuel Rogers (1763=1855) was a London banker 
a poet, and a giver of famous breakfasts in his beautiful 
home in St. James' Place. His principal poems are "The 
Pleasures of Memory," "Human Life," and "Italy." 

Thomas Davis (1814=1845) by his poems did more 
than any other Irishman to unite his people under 
O'Connell's leadership. The far-famed "Fontenoy," "The 
Rivers," and "The Lament for the Death of Owen Roe 
O'Neill," are among his best productions. 

Thomas Hood (1798=1845) stands in the first rank 
as a writer of humorous poems, but through his mirth 
runs a deep vein of melancholy pathos. Jerrold says: 



MODERN TIMES. 245 

"Hood's various pen touched alike the springs of laugh- 
ter and the sources of tears." His most popular poems 
are "The Song of the Shirt," "The Bridge of Sighs," and 
"The Dream of Eugene Aram." 

George Crabbe (1754=1832), " nature's sternest painter, 
yet the best," was one of the most energetic poets 
of the age. He wrote "The Library," "The Village," 
"The Parish Register," and other poems; in these he is 
almost painfully realistic and truthful. 




CHAPTER V. (Continued.) 
JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN. 

John Henry Newman was born February 21, 1801, 
His father was a London banker, his mother was of 
Huguenot extraction. The boy gave early evidence of 
great talent and deep religious convictions, and seems 
to have imbibed strong and bitter prejudices against the 
Catholic Church. At the age of sixteen he entered Trinity 
College, Oxford, and he became a Fellow of Oriel Col- 
lege in 1822. For some time, he was vice-principal of St. 
Alban Hall, under the distinguished Dr. Whately, and, 
in 1826, was a tutor of Oriel. From 1828 to 1843, ne 
held the position of vicar of St. Mary's, Oxford, and, in 
1830, was appointed one of the select preachers to the 
university. 

His first important literary work, though he had al- 
ready sent forth several essays which were favorably re- 
ceived, was a history of "The Arians of the Fourth Cen- 
tury," in 1832. The study and labor required in the 
preparation of this work seriously undermined his health, 
and he was persuaded to take a journey to Italy. While 
in Rome, he held himself aloof from Catholic influences, 
but he called twice upon Doctor Wiseman, who was at 
that time Rector of the English College in Rome. 

In Sicily, he was attacked by a long and dangerous 
illness. His attendants despaired of his recovery, but he 
reassured them, saying: "I shall not die. I have not 
sinned against light." He declared afterwards that he 



'A*2 < 




CARDINAL NEWMAN. 



MODERN TIMES. 249 

did not know what he meant by these strange words. On 
his return voyage he was becalmed a whole week in the 
Straits of Bonifacio, and while there he wrote these ex- 
quisite lines, which have found an echo and touched the 
most sacred hidden springs in every heart to which they 
have become known. 

THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD. 

Lead, kindly Light, amid th' encircling gloom, 

Lead Thou me on! 
The night is dark, and I am far from home — 

Lead Thou me on! 
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene — one step enough for me. 

I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that Thou 

Shouldst lead me on! 
I loved to choose and see my path, but now 

Lead Thou me on! 
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years. 

So long Thy power has blest me, sure it still 

Will lead me on 
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 

The night is gone; 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 

The great spiritual reaction in England, known as the 
Oxford or Tractarian movement, attracted the attention 
not only of Englishmen, but of the entire world. Among 
the boldest, and yet in some respects the most conserva- 
tive of the writers of the famous "Tracts for the Times," 
r was John Henry Newman. Secure as he believed him- 
self to be in the orthodoxy of the Anglican form of belief, 
he examined fearlessly and candidly all sides of the ques- 
tion. Inch by inch he fought his way, and step by step the 



250 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

ground crumbled beneath his feet, until he found himself 
upon the threshold of the Roman Catholic Church. In 
1843 ne resigned his position as vicar of St. Mary's, after 
making a formal retraction of the harsh things he had said 
against the Church of Rome. On October 9th, in the year 
1845, ne was received into the Catholic Church, and was 
confirmed on the Feast of All Saints. After studying for 
about three years in Rome he was ordained, and was 
commissioned by Pope Pius IX. to establish the Ora- 
torians, or the order of St. Philip Neri, in England. In 
looking back upon his influence, both at Oxford and all 
over the country, we must attribute it not to his talents, 
nor to his eloquence, nor even to his pure and beautiful 
religious writings, but to the individuality of honesty, of 
simplicity with earnestness, which made the man a more 
potent teacher than the theologian. He was so indubitably 
honest, so simple-natured and above the smallest prevari- 
cation, that when he put pen to paper all Protestants liked 
to read, because they knew he believed all he said. His 
influence on the nation was a half-conscious education, 
leading Protestants to see clearly that a master mind, 
which was Roman Catholic, could be as childlike in hon- 
esty as it was full of faith. 

Historian, controversialist, poet, theologian, and, in- 
deed, we may venture to add, saint, the late Cardinal 
Newman was also the first essayist of his time; rivalling 
in lucidity, in coloring, in depth, those masters whom we 
have been accustomed to take as models, and perhaps 
surpassing them in the charm of individuality, that in- 
definable and rare gift of nature. His language was a 
faultless instrument, and lie played on it as a faultless 
master. Could anything in oratory be more beautiful 
than his sermon on "The Second Spring," which even 



MODERN TIMES. 251 

Lord Macaulay is said to have learned by heart as one 
of the purest gems in the English language? As to his 
power as a preacher, Mr. Froude says: "That voice, so 
keen, so preternaturally sweet, its very whisper used to 
thrill through crowded churches, when every breath was 
held to hear." 

Of the thirty-four volumes published by Cardinal New- 
man, twelve comprise his "Sermons"; ten are mainly po- 
lemical. The others are "Historical Sketches," "Lectures 
on Universities," "Lectures on the Turks," essays on 
Cicero, Apollonius of Tyana and some of the Fathers 
the Third Century," "Loss and Gain," "The Grammar of 
Assent," and "Verses on Various Occasions," containing 
the "Dream of Gerontius." In 1864 Canon Kingsley made 
a most violent attack upon Dr. Newman in the columns 
of MacMiJlan's Magazine. This finally drew from the 
victim his famous "Apologia Pro Vita Sua," one of the 
most masterly productions in the English language, as it 
is one of the most interesting, in which the author gives 
the history of his religious opinions from his earliest 
recollections and unveils the workings of the religious 
revolution of 1833, in which he was one of the great 
leaders. 

The last sermon preached by Cardinal Newman was 
on Easter Sunday, 1887. His last public utterance was 
a blessing upon the Catholic Truth Society, whose con- 
gress was held in July, 1890. His death was imme- 
diately occasioned by a sudden attack of pneumonia. 
Lamartine says a man can be judged only by his peers; 
where then shall we find one worthy of the task of analyz- 
ing the character of this great man, whose lofty genius, 
utter disregard of selfish advancement and .childlike 
docility to the voice of faith combined to form a peer- 
less character? 



252 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

The "Dream of Gerontius" is one of the most original 
poems of the century. The saintly poet who wrote this 
modern gem has now passed into the eternal home for 
which he lived, and we can now dream of him as saying: 

I went to sleep; and now I am refreshed. 

A strange refreshment; for I feel in me 

An inexpressive lightness, and a sense 

Of freedom, as I were at length myself, 

And ne'er had been before. How still it is! 

I hear no more the busy beat of time, 

No, nor my fluttering breath, nor struggling pulse; 

Nor does one moment differ from the next. 

I had a dream; yes — some one softly said, 

"He's gone"; and then a sigh went round the room. 

And then I surely heard a priestly voice 

Cry "Subvenite"; and they knelt in prayer. 

I seem to hear him still; but thin and low, 

And fainter and more faint the accents come 

As at an ever-widening interval. 

Ah! whence is this? What is this severance? 

This silence pours a solitariness 

Into the very essence of my soul; 

And the deep rest, so soothing and so sweet, 

Hath something, too, of sternness and of pain, 

For it drives back my thoughts upon their spring 

By a strange introversion, and perforce 

I now begin to feed upon myself, 

Eecause I have naught else to feed upon. 

Am I alive or dead? I am not dead, 

But in the body still; for I possess 

A sort of confidence, which clings to me, 

That each particular organ holds its place 

As heretofore, combining with the rest 

Into one symmetry, that wraps me round, 

And makes me man; and surely I could move, 

Did I but will it, every part of me. 

And yet I cannot to my sense bring home, 

By very trial that I have the power. 



MODERN TIMES, 253 

'Tis strange; I cannot stir a hand or foot, 

I cannot make my fingers or my lips 

By mutual pressure witness each to each, 

Nor by the eyelid's instantaneous stroke 

Assure myself I have a body still. 

Nor do I know my very attitude, 

Nor if I stand, or lie, or sit, or kneel. 

So much I know, not knowing how I know, 

That the vast universe, where I have dwelt, 

Is quitting me, or I am quitting it. 

Or I or it is rushing on the wings 

Of light or lightning on an onward course, 

And we e'en now are million miles apart. 

Then Gerontius becomes aware of evil beings who 
are hungering after him and is told by his Guardian 
Angel that: 

It is a restless panting of their being; 
Like beasts of prey, who caged within their bars 
In a deep, hideous purring have their life, 
And an incessant pacing to and fro. 

The dream virtually ends with this passionate expres- 
sion of heart-rending anguish and heart-healing hope: 

Take me away, and in the lowest deep 

There let me be, 
And there in hope the lone night-watches keep, 

Told out for me; 
There, motionless and happy in my pain, 

Lone, not forlorn — 
There will I sing my sad perpetual strain 

Until the morn. 
There will I sing, and soothe my stricken breast, 

Which ne'er can cease 
To throb, and pine, and languish, till possest 

Of its Sole Peace; 



254 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

There will I sing my absent Lord and Love: 

Take me away, 
That sooner I may rise and go above 
And see Him in the truth of everlasting day. 

IDEAL AUTHORSHIP DESCRIBED. 

Reverting, then, to my original question, what is the mean- 
ing of Letters, as contained, gentlemen, in the designation of 
your faculty, I have answered, that by Letters, or Literature, 
is meant the expression of thought in language, where by 
"thought" I mean the ideas, feelings, views, reasonings and 
other operations of the human mind. And the Art of Letters 
is the method by which a speaker or writer brings out in words 
worthy of his subject, and sufficient for his audience or readers, 
the thoughts which impress him. Literature, then, is of a 
personal character; it consists in the enunciations and teach- 
ings of those who have a right to speak as representatives of 
their kind, and in whose words their brethren find an inter- 
pretation of their own sentiments, a record of their own ex- 
periences, and a suggestion for their own judgments. A great 
author, gentlemen, is not one who has merely a copia ver- 
lorum, whether in prose or verse, and can, as it were, turn 
on at his will any number of splendid phrases and swelling 
sentences; but he is one who has something to say and knows 
how to say it. I do not claim for him, as such, any great depth 
of thought, or breadth of view, or philosophy, or sagacity, or 
knowledge of human nature, or experience of human life, 
though these additional gifts he may have, and the more he 
has of them the greater he is; but I ascribe to him, as his 
characteristic gift, in a large sense the faculty of expression. 
He is master of the two-fold Logos, the thought and the word, 
distinct but inseparable from each other. He may, if so be, 
elaborate his compositions, or he may pour out his improvi- 
sations, but in either case he has but one aim, which he keeps 
steadily before him, and is conscientious, and single-minded 
in fulfilling. That aim is to give forth what he has within 
him, and from his very earnestness it comes to pass that, 
whatever be the splendor of his diction, or the harmony of 
his periods, he has with him the charm of an incommunicable 



MODERN TIMES. 255 

simplicity. Whatever be his subject, high or low, he treats it 
suitably and for its own sake. If he is a poet, "nil molitur 
inepte." If he is an orator, then, too, he speaks, not only 
"distincte" and "splendide," but also "apte." His page is the 
lucid mirror of his mind and life — 

"Quo fit, ut omnis 
Votiva pateat veluti descripta tabella 
Vita senis." 

He writes passionately, because he feels keenly; forcibly, 
because he conceives vividly; he sees too clearly to be vague; 
he is too serious to be otiose; he can analyze his subject, 
and therefore he is rich; he embraces it as a whole and in 
its parts, and therefore he is consistent; he has a firm 
hold of it, and therefore he is luminous. When his 
imagination wells up, it overflows in ornament; when 
his heart is touched, it thrills along his verse. He always 
has the right word for the right idea, and never a word too 
much. If he is brief, it is because few words suffice; 
when he is lavish of them, still each word has its mark, and 
aids, not embarrasses, the vigorous march of his elocu- 
tion. He expresses what all feel, but what all cannot say; 
and his sayings pass into proverbs among his people, and 
his phrases become household words and idioms of their daily 
speech, which is tesselated with the rich fragments of his 
language, as we see in foreign lands the marbles of Roman 
grandeur worked into the walls and pavements of modern 
palaces. 

Such preeminently is Shakespeare among ourselves; such 
preeminently was Virgil among the Latins; such in their 
degree are all those writers who in every nation go by the name 
of Classics. To particular nations they are necessarily at- 
tached from the circumstance of the variety of tongues, and 
the peculiarities of each; but so far they have a catholic and 
ecumenical character that what they express is common to 
the whole race of man, and they alone are able to express it. 

If then the power of speech is as great as any that can be 
named, — if the origin of language is by many philosophers 
even considered to be nothing short of divine, — if by means 
of words the secrets of the heart are brought to light, pain of 



256 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

soul is relieved, hidden grief is carried off, sympathy conveyed, 
counsel imparted, experience recorded, and wisdom perpetu- 
ated, — if by great authors the many are drawn up into unity, 
national character is fixed, a people speaks, the past and the 
future, the East and the West are brought into communica- 
tion with each other, — if such men are, in a word, the spokes- 
men and prophets of the human family, — it will not answer 
to make light of Literature or to neglect its study; rather 
we may be sure that, in proportion as we master it in what- 
ever language, and imbibe its spirit, we shall ourselves be- 
come in our own measure the ministers of like benefits to 
others, be they many or few, be they in the obscurer or the 
more distinguished walks of life, — who are united to us by 
social ties, and are within the sphere of our personal influence. 
— From Lectures on University Subjects. 

Nicholas Patrick (Cardinal) Wiseman (1802=1865).— 
Nicholas Patrick Wiseman was born in Seville, Spain, 
and was educated at St. Cuthbert's College, Ushaw. In 
1818 he went to Rome as a student of the English Col- 
lege, where he attracted attention by the publication of 
his first book, "Home Syriacae," a treatise on Oriental 
languages. He was ordained priest in his twenty-third 
year, but on account of his extraordinary abilities he was 
not allowed to return to England at once, but was re- 
tained in Rome, filling various positions of great re- 
sponsibility. The Papal Bull of 1850 having restored the 
Roman Catholic hierarchy in England, Dr. Wiseman was 
appointed Archbishop of Westminster, and was created 
Cardinal. In England intense excitement followed these 
acts, but the Cardinal by his consummate prudence suc- 
ceeded in allaying the storm. 

His lectures "On the Connection between the Arts of 
Design and the Art of Production," and "On the High- 
ways of Peaceful Commerce as being the Highways of 
Art," show great learning and unusual yersatility of mind, 







CARDINAL WISEMAN. 



MODERN TIMES. 259 

His "Fabiola, or the Church of the Catacombs" is a mas- 
terpiece of narrative. Brownson says of it: "It is a most 
charming book, a truly popular work and alike pleasing 
to the scholar and the general reader. It is the first work 
of the kind that we have read, in any language, in which 
truly pious and devout sentiment, and the loftiest and 
richest imagination, are so blended, so fused together, 
that the one never jars on the other." Among his other 
works we may mention "Essays on Various Subjects," 
"Recollections of the Last Four Popes," sermons, lec- 
tures and speeches. His style was polished, sometimes 
perhaps too florid. He was a profound linguist, a man 
of great achievements and still greater aims. No man 
was ever more earnest than he in his devotion to his relig- 
ion, and his name is indissolubly connected with the 
re-establishment of Catholicity in England. 

THE MARTYRDOM OF SEBASTIAN, FROM FABIOLA. 

His prayer, till morning, was a gladsome hymn of glory 
and honor to the King of kings, a joining with the seraph's 
glowing eyes, and ever-shaking wings, in restless homage. 
Then when the stars in the bright heavens caught his eyes, 
he challenged them as wakeful sentinels like himself, to ex- 
change the watchword of Divine praises; and as the night- 
wind rustled in the leafless trees of the neighboring court of 
Adonis, he bade its wayward music compose itself, and its 
rude harping upon the vibrating boughs form softer hymns, — 
the only ones that earth could utter in its winter night hours. 

Sebastian was conducted into the court of the palace which 
separated the quarters of the African archers from his own 
dwelling. Here he was stripped and bound to a tree while 
the archers took their stand opposite, cool and collected. It 
was at best a desolate sort of death. Not a friend, not a sym-. 
pathizer near; not one fellow-Christian to bear his farewell 
to the faithful, or to record for them his last accents and the 
constancy of his end. To stand in the middle of the crowded 



260 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

amphitheatre, with a hundred thousand witnesses of Chris- 
tian constancy, to see the encouraging looks of many, and 
hear the whispered blessings of a few loving acquaintances, 
had something cheering and almost inspiring in it; it lent at 
least the feeble aid of human emotions to the more powerful 
sustainment of grace. But this dead and silent scene, at dawn 
of day, shut up in the court of a house; this being with most 
unfeeling indifference tied up like a truss of hay or a stuffed 
figure, to be coolly aimed at, according to the tyrant's orders, 
this being alone in the midst of a horde of swarthy savages 
whose very language was strange, uncouth and unintelligible; 
all this had more the appearance of a piece of cruelty, about 
to be acted in a gloomy forest by banditti, than open and 
glorious confession of Christ's name; it looked and felt more 
like assassination than martyrdom. 

But Sebastian cared not for all this. Angels looked over the 
wall upon him; and the rising sun, which dazzled his eyes, 
but made him a clearer mark for the bowmen, shone not 
more brightly on him than did the countenance of the only 
Witness he cared to have. 

The first Moor drew his bow-string to his ear, and an arrow 
trembled in the flesh of Sebastian. Each chosen marksman 
followed in turn; and shouts of applause accompanied each 
hit, so cleverly approaching, yet avoiding, according to the 
imperial order, every vital part. It was indeed a dreary death; 
yet this was not the worst. After all, death came not; the 
golden gates remained unbarred; the martyr in heart was 
reserved for greater glory even upon earth. His tormentors 
saw when they had reached their intended measure; they cut 
the cords that bound him, and Sebastian fell exhausted, and 
to all appearance dead. Did he lie like a noble warrior, as he 
now appears in marble under his altar in his own dear church? 
We at least cannot imagine him as more beautiful. And not 
only that church do we love, but that ancient chapel which 
stands in the midst of the ruined Palatine, to mark the spot 
on which he fell. 

Henry Edward (Cardinal) Manning (1808=1892).— Henry 
Edward Manning, the son of a merchant and 
member of Parliament, was born in London, and was 




CARDINAL MANNING. 



MODERN TIMES. 263 

educated at Harrow and at Oxford. He was elected 
Fellow of Merton College in 1830, and shortly afterward 
became a- clergyman of the Anglican Church. In 1834 
he was appointed rector of Lavington, and was promoted 
to the archdeaconry of Chichester in 1840. He was 
regarded as one of the brightest ornaments of the Es- 
tablished Church, and for eighteen years faithfully per- 
formed the duties of his charge, until the results of the 
famous Hampden and Gorham controversies* led him 
to doubt the Anglican position. Abandoning all present 
honors and future dignities, he embraced the Roman 
Catholic faith, and as the death of his wife had left him 
free, he became a priest. As a Catholic priest he exer- 
cised his ministry among the poor of London, until he 
was appointed, in 1865, to succeed Cardinal Wiseman 
as Archbishop of Westminster. In 1870 he took an ac- 
tive part in the deliberations of the Vatican Council, and 
five years later, Pope Pius IX. called him to the Sacred 
College of Cardinals. 

The literary productions of Cardinal Manning are in 
the form of lectures, sermons and reviews. His principal 



*Iu 1847 the Crown appointed Dr. Hampden to the Episco- 
pal See of Hereford, notwithstanding the fact that many bish- 
ops and other clergymen looked upon him as a heretic and 
protested against this nomination. The Archbishop of Can- 
terbury, Dr. Sumner, declared publicly that he was bound to 
obey the Crown and consecrate Dr. Hampden. 

In 1849 Mr. Gorham was nominated to a benefice but was 
rejected by the bishop on the plea that Mr. Gorham denied 
baptismal regeneration. An appeal was made to the judicial 
committee of the Privy Council, which decided that notwith- 
standing his denial of baptismal regeneration, Mr. Gorham 
was entitled to act as a clergyman of the Church of Eng- 
land. 



264 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

works are "Lectures on the Four Great Evils of the Day," 
"The Temporal Mission of the Holy Ghost, 1 ' "The In- 
ternal Mission of the Holy Ghost," "The Love of Jesus 
to Penitents," and "Lectures on the Four-fold Sover- 
eignty of God." These are remarkable for their simple 
and direct eloquence, broadness of view, closeness of rea- 
soning, and clearness and energy of style. 

INTO THE LIKENESS OF GOD. 

We know that friends who love one another become like to 
one another; they catch the very tones of each other's voices; 
they exchange the very look of each other's countenances — 
features the most dissimilar acquire a strange likeness in 
expression. So it is with our souls, if we live in the habit of 
prayer, that is, in conversing or in speaking with God. When 
Stephen stood before the council, his face shone like the face 
of an angel. The light of the presence of his Master in heaven 
fell upon it. And they who live a life of prayer are being 
ever changed into the likeness of their divine Lord. I do 
not mean that they are outwardly transformed; I do not mean 
that there come rays out of their hands or their side, or that 
there is any resplendent light upon their countenances, but 
I mean that there is a gentleness, a kindness, a sweetness, 
an attraction about their life that makes everybody at peace 
with them. Everybody draws near to them with a tranquil 
confidence and a rest of heart. We know that with some peo- 
ple, though they are good and just, yet when we approach 
them, we have a sense of fear; but if a man has in him the 
likeness of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, there is an attraction 
that goes out from him. The world calls it fascination; but 
what the world calls fascination is simply this, that in the 
measure in which men have the likeness of the Sacred Heart 
of Jesus, they draw others to themselves. 

Sir Walter Scott (1771=1832).— Walter Scott was 
born in Edinburgh in 1771. In consequence of delicate 
health in early life, he was placed under the care of his 
grandfather in Kelso, a spot surrounded with legends, 




SIR WALTER SCOTT. 



MODERN TIMES. 267 

ruins and historic localities. He was afterwards sent to 
the high school and then to the University of Edinburgh, 
but he was not noted for his scholarship. He was the 
idol of his school-fellows, who clustered about him, while 
he extemporized stories innumerable. He began legal 
studies, but like many another before him, while he was 
supposed to be hard at work on dry formalities, his 
genius and taste sought something more congenial. In 
spite of a growing distaste for his profession, Scott be- 
came a sound lawyer. 

His first publication was "The Minstrelsy of the Scot- 
tish Border," and its success caused him to abandon the 
profession of law and devote himself to literature. In 
1805 "The Lay of the Last Minstrel" appeared. "Mar- 
mion," "The Lady of the Lake," "Rokeby," and "The 
Lord of the Isles" followed in rapid succession and were 
received with enthusiasm. With "Rokeby" the popu- 
larity of his poetry declined; this may have been due to 
the rising glory of Byron's genius. Scott quietly aban- 
doned poetry to enter the field of the novelist, where he 
had no rival. 

The first of the inimitable "Waverley Novels" appeared 
anonymously in 18 14. For seventeen years he worked 
with inconceivable industry, and produced his long series 
of novels. In 1820 he received from George IV. the title 
of baronet, and at the same time immense profits accru- 
ing from his publications enabled him to possess what 
he had long desired, a baronial estate. The farm of 
Clartv-Hole on the Tweed became the famous Abbots- 
ford, where Sir Walter entertained in princely fashion his 
hosts of distinguished visitors. To maintain this ex- 
travagant mode of life he engaged in large commercial 
speculations with the publishing firm of the Ballantynes, 
his intimate friends. 



268 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

The commercial crisis of 1825 brought about the fail- 
ure of the Ballantynes, and Scott was financially ruined. 
He might have taken advantage of the bankrupt law, but 
his sense of honor prompted him to give up his beloved 
Abbotsford and devote himself entirely to literary labors 
that he might satisfy his creditors. He succeeded, but at 
the cost of his life. In 1831 a stroke of paralysis so shat- 
tered his mental powers that repose became a necessity. 
Partially recovering, he traveled on the continent and on 
his return died at Abbotsford, in 1832. 

FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE. CANTO III. 

Ave Maria! maiden mild! 

Listen to a maiden's prayer! 
Thou canst hear though from the wild, 

Thou canst save amid despair. 
Safe may we sleep beneath thy care, 

Though banished, outcast, and reviled — 
Maiden! hear a maiden's prayer; 

Mother, hear a suppliant child! 
Ave Maria! 

Ave Maria! undefiled! 

The flinty couch we now must share 
Shall seem with down of eider piled, 

If thy protection hover there. 
The murky cavern's heavy air 

Shall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled; 
Then, Maiden! hear a maiden's prayer; 

Mother, list a suppliant child! 
Ave Maria! 

Ave Maria! stainless styled! 

Foul demons of the earth and air, 
From this their wanton haunt exiled, 

Shall flee before thy presence fair. 



MODERN TIMES. 269 

We bow us to our lot of care, 

Beneath thy guidance reconciled; 
Hear for a maid a maiden's prayer, 

And for a father hear a child! 
Ave Maria! 

FROM MARMION. CANTO VI. 
Not far advanced was morning day, 
When Marmion did his troop array 

To Surrey's camp to ride; 
He had safe conduct for his band, 
Beneath the royal seal and hand, 

And Douglas gave a guide: 
The ancient Earl, with stately grace, 
Would Clara on her palfrey place, 
And whispered in an undertone, 
"Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." — 
The train from out the castle drew, 
But Marmion stopp'd to bid adieu: — 

"Though something I might plain," he said, 
"Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
Sent hither by your King's behest, 

While in Tantallon's towers I staid; 
Part we in friendship from your land, 
And, noble Earl, receive my hand." 
But Douglas round him drew his cloak, 
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: 
"My manors, halls and towers shall still 
Be open, at my sovereign's will, 
To each one whom he lists, howe'er 
Unmeet to be the owner's peer. 
My castles are my King's alone, 
From turret to foundation-stone — 
The hand of Douglas is his own; 
And never shall in friendly grasp 
The hand of such as Marmion clasp." 

Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, 
And shook his very frame for ire. 

And "This to me!" he said, — 



270 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

"An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, 
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared 

To cleave the Douglas' head! 
And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, 
He who does England's message here, 
Although the meanest in her state, 
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate: 
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, 

Even in thy pitch of pride, 
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
(Nay, never look upon your lord, 
And lay your hands upon your sword), 

I tell thee thou'rt defied! 
And if thou said'st I am not peer 
To any lord in Scotland here, 
Lowland or Highland, far or near, 

Lord Angus, thou hast lied!" 
On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage 
O'ercame the ashen hue of age: 
Fierce he broke forth — "And darest thou, then, 
To beard the lion in his den, 

The Douglas in his hall? 
And hopest thou hence unscathed to go? — 
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no! 
Up drawbridge, grooms — what, Warder, ho! 

Let the portcullis fall." 
Lord Marmion turn'd — well was his need, 
And dash'd the rowels in his steed, 
Like arrow through the archway sprung, 
The ponderous gate behind him rung: 
To pass there was such scanty room, 
The bars, descending, razed his plume. 

The steed along the drawbridge flies, 
Just as it trembled on the rise; 
Not lighter does the swallow skim 
Along the smooth lake's level brim: 
And when Lord Marmion reached his band, 
He halts, and turn'd, with clenched hand, 
And shout of loud defiance pours, 



MODERN TIMES. 271 

And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 

"Horse! horse;" the Douglas cried, "and chase!" 

But soon he reined his fury's pace: 

"A royal messenger he came, 

Though most unworthy of the name. — 

A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed! 

Did ever Knight so foul a deed! 

At first in heart it liked me ill 

When the King praised his clerkly skill. 

Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine, 

Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line, 

So swore I, and I swear it still, 

Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. 

Saint Mary mend my fiery mood! 

Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood. 

I thought to slay him where he stood. 

'Tis pity of him, too," he cried: 

"BOld can he speak, and fairly ride, 

I warrant him a warrior tried." 

With this his mandate he recalls, 

And slowly seeks his castle halls. 

Thomas Babington Macaulay (1800=1859). — Thomas 
Babington Macaulay, the most versatile writer of the cen- 
tury, was born in Rothley Temple, Leicestershire, Eng- 
land, in the year 1800. His works, though universally 
known, bear little indication of his personal qualities, or 
of his life, which was full of tender domestic affection. 
His fondness for reading manifested itself when he was 
but three years old, and as his memory retained without 
effort the phraseology of the book with which he had been 
last engaged, his childish conversation was exceedingly 
droll. While still a mere child he was sent to school to a 
Mr. Greaves. Mrs. Macaulay explained to her little son 
that he must now learn to study without the solace of 
bread and butter, to which he replied: "Yes, mamma, 
industry shall be my bread and attention my butter" ; but 



272 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

as a matter of fact no one crept more unwillingly to 
school than he. In 1818 he entered Trinity College, Cam- 
bridge, and in 1821 he was elected to a Craven scholar- 
ship, the highest distinction in classics which the univer- 
sity confers. It is somewhat encouraging to find such a 
character as Macaulay dreading examinations; at school 
he wrote: "I shall not be able to avoid trembling whether 
I know my subjects or not." Of mathematics he writes: 
"Oh for words to express my abomination of that science, 
if a name sacred to the useful and embellishing arts may 
be applied to the perception and recollection of certain 
properties in numbers and figures!" 

Leaving the university he studied law, and suddenly 
achieved a literary reputation by his celebrated article on 
Milton, which appeared in the Edinburgh Review in 1825. 
This was the first of a long series of brilliant literary and 
historical essays contributed to the same periodical. In 
1830 he entered Parliament, and was a member of the 
supreme council in India in 1834-38. In 1857 he was 
raised to the peerage with the title of Baron Macaulay. 

One of the best traits in Macaulay's character is, that 
he was just as fond of his sisters' society when he was a 
great and busy man as he had been before. His articles 
, were read to them and when they criticised anything, he 
was glad to please them by changing it. They had evi- 
dently criticised the article on Mirabeau in one of their 
letters and he retaliates thus: "I am delighted to find 
that you like my article on Mirabeau, though I am angry 
with Margaret for grumbling at my Scriptural allusions, 
and still more angry with Nancy for denying my insight 
into character. It is one of my strong points. If she 
knew how far I see into hers she would be ready to hang 
herself." He delighted in telling them all about his sue- 




LORD MACAULAY. 



MODERN TIMES. 275 

cess, the compliments he received, the receptions given 
in his honor. In describing his reception at Holland 
House, he writes: 

"Fine Morning Scene, the great Entrance of Holland House. 
Enter Macaulay and two Footmen in Livery. 

First Footman. — Sir, may I venture to demand your name? 

Macaulay. — Macaulay, and thereto I add M. P. 
And that addition, e'en in these proud halls, 
May well insure the bearer some respect. 

Second Footman. — And art thou come to breakfast with 
our lord? 

Macaulay. — I am; for so his hospitable will, 
And hers the peerless dame ye serve — both bade. 

First Footman. — Ascend the stair and thou shalt find, 
On snow-white linen spread, the luscious meal." 

But he was not always writing nonsense, although he 
was delighted to know that his letters were found amus- 
ing or interesting. At the time he received the most en- 
thusiastic compliments, his greatest pleasure was to think 
of the happiness it would impart to his parents and sisters. 
It was happy for him, he said, that ambition in his mind 
had been softened into a kind of domestic feeling, and 
that affection had as much to do as vanity with his wish 
to distinguish himself. This, he says, he owes to his dear 
mother, and to the interest she took in his childish suc- 
cesses. From his earliest years the gratification of those 
he loved was associated with the gratification of his own 
thirst for fame, until the two became inseparably united in 
his mind. In 1858 he died suddenly of heart disease and 
was buried in Westminster Abbey. 

In descriptive poetry, in criticism, in essay writing, in 
political papers, in oratory and especially in historical 
narration, he has shown himself to be a master. His 
"Lays of Ancient Rome" are the best known of his poems. 
In them he tells the martial stories of Horatius Codes, 



276 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

the battle of Lake Regillus, the death of Virginia, and 
the prophecy of Capys, with a simplicity and fire that 
win our hearts. His Essays and his History give him a 
high place in English classics. His writings are certainly 
attractive, but they are not safe guides in the appreciation 
of men and events. His style is thus described by Dean 
Milman: "Its characteristics were vigor and animation, 
copiousness, clearness. His copiousness had nothing 
timid, diffuse, Asiatic; no ornament for the sake of orna- 
ment. As to its clearness, one may read a sentence of 
Macaulay twice to judge of its full force, never to com- 
prehend its meaning. His English was pure, both in 
idiom and in words, pure to fastidiousness." 

FROM THE ESSAY ON WARREN HASTINGS. 

With all Hastings' faults, and they were neither few nor 
small, only one cemetery was worthy to contain his remains. 
In that temple of silence and reconciliation, where the enmi- 
ties of twenty generations lie buried, in the great Abbey which 
has during many ages afforded a quiet resting-place to those 
whose minds and bodies have been shattered by the conten- 
tions of the Great Hall, the dust of this illustrious accused 
statesman should have mingled with the dust of his illustrious 
accusers. This was not to be. Yet the place of interment was 
not ill-chosen. Behind the chancel of the parish church of 
Daylesford, in earth which already held the bones of many 
chiefs of the house of Hastings, was laid the coffin of the 
greatest man who has ever borne that ancient and widely 
. extended name. On that very spot, probably, fourscore years 
before, the little Warren, meanly clad and scantily fed, had 
played with children of ploughmen. Even then his young mind 
had revolved plans which might be called romantic. Yet, how- 
ever romantic, it is not likely that they had been so strange 
as the truth. Not only had the poor orphan retrieved the fallen 
fortunes of his line. Not only had he repurchased the old 
lands, and rebuilt the old dwelling. He had preserved and ex- 
tended an empire. He had founded a polity. He had admin- 



MODERN TIMES. _ 277 

istered government and war with more than the capacity of 
a Richelieu. He had patronized learning with the judicious 
liberality of Cosmo. He had been attacked by the most for- 
midable combination of enemies that ever sought the destruc- 
tion of a single victim; and over that combination, after a 
struggle of ten years, he had triumphed. He had at length 
gone down to his grave, in the fulness of age, in peace, after 
so many troubles; in honor after so much obloquy. 

Those who look upon his character without favor or male- 
volence will pronounce that, in the two great elements of all 
social virtue, in respect for the rights of others, and in sym- 
pathy for the sufferings of others, he was deficient. His prin- 
ciples were somewhat lax. His heart was somewhat hard. 
But though we cannot with truth describe him either as a 
righteous or as a merciful ruler, we cannot regard without 
admiration the amplitude and fertility of his intellect, his 
rare talents for command, for administration, and for con- 
troversy, his dauntless courage, his honorable poverty, his 
fervent zeal for the interests of the State, his noble equanimity, 
tried by both extremes of fortune, and never disturbed by 
either. 

FROM THE ESSAY ON THE EARL OF CHATHAM. 

Chatham, at the time of his decease, had not in both Houses 
of Parliament ten personal adherents. Half the public men 
of the age had been estranged from him by his errors, and the 
other half by the exertions he had made to repair his errors. 
But death restored him to his old place in the affections of his 
country. Who could hear unmoved of the fall of that which 
had been so great and had stood so long? The circumstances, 
too, seemed rather to belong to the tragic stage than to real life. 
A great statesman, full of years and honors, led forth to the 
Senate House by a son of rare hopes, and stricken down in full 
council while straining his feeble voice to rouse the drooping 
spirit of his country, could not but be remembered with peculiar 
veneration and tenderness. The few detractors who ventured 
to murmur were silenced, by the indignant clamors of a nation 
which remembered only the lofty genius, the unsullied probity, 
the undisputed services of him who was no more. For once 



278 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

all parties were agreed. A public funeral, a public monument 
were eagerly voted. The debts of the deceased were paid. The 
City of London requested that the remains of the great man 
whom she had so long loved and honored, might rest under 
the dome of her magnificent cathedral. But the petition came 
too late. Everything was already prepared for the interment 
in Westminster Abbey. 

Chatham sleeps near the northern door of the church, in 
a spot which has ever since been appropriated to statesmen, as 
the other end of the same transept has been to poets. Mans- 
field rests there, and the second William Pitt, and Fox, and 
Grattan, and Canning, and Wilberforce. In no other cemetery 
do SO' many great citizens lie within so narrow a spage. High 
over these venerable graves towers the stately monument of 
Chatham, and, from above his effigy, graven by a cunning hand, 
seems still, with eagle face and outstretched arm, to bid Eng- 
land to be of good cheer and hurl defiance at her foes. The 
generation which reared that memorial of him has disappeared. 
The time has come when the rash and indiscriminate judg- 
ments which his contemporaries passed on his character may 
be calmly reviewed by history. And history, while, for the warn- 
ing of vehement, high and daring natures, she notes his many 
errors, will yet deliberately pronounce that among the emi- 
nent men whose bones lie near his, scarcely one has left a 
more stainless, and none a more splendid name. 

William Makepeace Thackeray (1812=1863). — William 
Makepeace Thackeray was born in Calcutta, where 
Jiis father was employed in the service of the East India 
Company. When Thackeray was but seven years old he 
was sent to England to receive his education. He was 
placed first at the Charterhouse school, and after some 
time he entered Cambridge. The death of his father left 
him wealth, and freedom to direct his course of study. He 
left the university without taking his degree, and repaired 
to Rome and to other continental cities, where he studied 
art successfully. The loss of his fortune obliged him to 
turn his attention to literature. He wrote for the London 




WILLIAM M. THACKERAY. 



MODERN TIMES. 281 

Times and for other journals and periodicals, but until 
he became a contributor to Fraser's Magazine he did not 
enjoy popularity. Tales, criticism and poetry appeared 
in great profusion, and were illustrated by the author's 
own pencil, or, as he wittily said, were "illuminated by the 
author's own candles." In 1846 appeared "Vanity Fair," 
esteemed by many the masterpiece of Thackeray's pro- 
ductions. As a whole the book is full of quiet sarcasm, 
but the lesson taught is a good one. There may be de- 
tails of evil painted almost too plainly, but none painted 
so as to allure. The greatest of his works in addition to 
"Vanity Fair" are "Pendennis," "Esmond," "The New- 
comes," and "The Virginians." His lectures "On the 
English Humorists" and "The Four Georges" are models 
of style and criticism. 

In 1863 Thackeray died suddenly from effusion of the 
brain. A monument to his memory has been erected in 
the Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey. 

The chief characteristic of Thackeray's writings is their 
pungent sarcasm, which, in nearly every case, he directed 
against the follies of the higher classes of society. "In a 
moral point of view his works are open to objection. The 
fundamental principle which underlies them is the total 
depravity of human nature, rendering virtue an impossi- 
bility, and religious practice a sham. We know that the 
human power for good was weakened, not destroyed, 
by the fall of Adam, and that the grace of Christ may yet 
raise men to the sublimest virtue." 

FROM THE NEWCOMES. 

All the time we have been making this sketch, Ethel is 
standing looking at Clive; and the blushing youth casts down 
his eyes before hers. Her face assumes a look of arch humor. 



282 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

She passes a slim hand over the prettiest lips and a chin 
with the most lovely of dimples, thereby indicating her admira- 
tion of Mr. Clive's mustachio and imperial. They are of a 
warm yellowish chestnut color, and have not yet known the 
razor. 

And now let the artist cut a fresh pencil, and give us a 
likeness of Ethel. She is seventeen years old; somewhat taller 
than the majority of women; of a countenance somewhat 
grave and haughty, hut on occasions brightening with humor 
or beaming with kindliness and affection. Too quick to detect 
affectation or insincerity in others, too impatient of dullness or 
pomposity, she is more sarcastic now than she became after 
years of suffering had softened her nature. Truth looks out 
of her bright eyes, and rises up armed, and flashes scorn or 
denial, perhaps too readily, when she encounters flattery, or 
meanness or imposture. After her first appearance in. the 
world, if the truth must be told, this young lady was popular 
neither with many men, nor with most women. The innocent 
dancing youth who pressed round her, attracted by her beauty, 
were rather afraid after a while of engaging her. This one 
felt dimly that she despised him; another, that his simpering 
commonplaces (delights of how many well-bred maidens!) only 
occasioned Miss Newcome's laughter. Young Lord Croesus, 
whom all maidens and matrons were eager to secure, was as- 
tounded to find that he was utterly indifferent to her, and that 
she would refuse him twice or thrice in an evening, and dance 
as many times with poor Tom Spring, who was his father's 
ninth son, and only at home till he could get a ship and go to 
sea again. The young women were frightened at her sar- 
casm. She seemed to know what fadaises they whispered to 
their partners as they paused in the waltzes; and Fanny, who 
was luring Lord Croesus toward her with her blue eyes, 
dropped them guiltily to the floor when Ethel's turned to- 
ward her; and Cecilia sang more out of time than usual; and 
Clara, who was holding Freddy and Charley and Tommy round 
her enchanted by her bright conversation and witty mischief, 
became dumb and disturbed when Ethel passed with her cold 
face; and old Lady Hookham, who was playing off her little 
Minnie now at Young Jack Gorget of the Guards, now at the 
eager and simple Bob Bateson of the Coldstreams, would slink 



MODERN TIMES. 283 

off when Ethel made her appearance on the ground, whose 
presence seemed to frighten away the fish and the angler. No 
wonder that the other May Fair nymphs were afraid of this 
severe Diana, whose looks were so cold, and whose arrows were 
so keen. 

But those who had no cause to heed Diana's shot or cold- 
ness, might admire her beauty; nor could the famous Parisian 
marble, which Clive said she resembled, be more perfect in 
form than this young lady. Her hair and eyebrows were jet 
black (these latter may have been too thick according to some 
physiognomists, giving rather a stern expression to the eyes, . 
and hence causing those guilty ones to tremble who came under 
her lash), but her complexion was as dazzlingly fair as Miss 
Rosey's own, who had a right to these beauties, being a blonde 
by nature. In Miss Ethel's black hair there was a natural 
ripple, as when a fresh breeze blows over the melan hudor — 
a ripple such as Roman ladies nineteen hundred years ago, 
and our own beauties a short time since, endeavored to imitate 
by art, paper, and, I believe, crumpling irons. Her eyes were 
gray; her mouth rather large; her teeth as regular and bright 
as Lady Kew's own; her voice low and sweet; and her smile 
when it lighted up her face and eyes, as beautiful as spring 
sunshine; also they could lighten and flash often, and some- 
times, though rarely, rain. As for her figure — but as this tall, 
slender form is concealed in a simple white muslin robe (of 
the sort which, I believe, is called demi-toilette), in which her 
fair arms are enveloped, and which is confined at her slim 
waist by an azure ribbon, and descends to her feet — let us 
make a respectful bow to that fair image of Youth, Health, 
and Modesty, and fancy it as pretty as we will. 

Charles Dickens ( 1812=1870).— Charles Dickens was 
born at Landport, Portsmouth, in 1812. His early life 
was passed in extreme poverty; in fact, "David Copper- 
field," with its descriptions of misery and suffering, may 
be considered the autobiography of Dickens. He went 
to school for two or three years and then became a re- 
porter for some of the London newspapers. In this work 



284 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

he had a broad field for observing the characters and 
habits of the poorer classes, and he began his "Sketches 
of Life and Character," which were afterwards collected 
and published as "Sketches by Boz." The book sold well, 
and its author was asked to write the adventures of a 
company of sportsmen, this work to be published in 
monthly parts, illustrated by a comic artist of the day. 
The first number appeared in 1836, bearing the title of 
'The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. ' Its 
success was unprecedented in English literature and its 
author became immediately famous. "Oliver Twist/' 
"Nicholas Nickleby," "Barnaby Rudgc," and "The Old 
Curiosity Shop" followed in quick succession, and sus- 
tained the writer's reputation. In 1842 Dickens visited 
the United States, where he was cordially welcomed, for 
his fame here was as great as in England. This visit fur- 
nished him with material for his next two works, "Ameri- 
can Notes" and "Martin Chuzzlewit," in which he keenly 
satirized some American follies. 

In 1850 he took charge of a weekly paper called House- 
hold Words and afterwards established All the Year 
Round, in which his later works were published in in- 
stallments. Among his other important works are his 
charming "Christmas Stories," "Dombey and Son," 
"Great Expectations," and "Our Mutual Friend." He had 
begun a new story, "The Mystery of Edwin Drood," when 
death overtook him. His vigorous constitution broke 
down from overwork, and he died suddenly in 1870. "He 
was certainly a moral writer, and he lauded the house- 
hold virtues; but there is a higher aspect of morality, one 
in which Catholic readers are bound to regard every book 
which professes to, deal with the condition of man; and, 
so regarded, Dickens' works are as false as any of 




CHARLES DICKENS. 



MODERN TIMES. 287 

those of the undisguisedly materialistic writers of the day. 
He vaunted the nostrums of' good fellowship and senti- 
mental tenderness, of human institutions, and the natural 
virtues, as remedies for sin, sorrow and the weariness of 
life. Can any writer be quite harmless who leads the mind 
of his readers so far from every source of spiritual en- 
lightenment?" 

FROM DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

The next domestic trial we went through was the Ordeal 
of Servants. Mary Anne's cousin deserted into our coal-hole, 
and was brought out, to our great amazement, by a piquet 
of his companions in arms, who took him away handcuffed in 
a procession that covered our front garden with ignominy. This 
nerved me to get rid of Mary Anne, who went so mildly, on 
receipt of wages, that I was surprised, until I found out about 
the teaspoons, and also about the little sums she had bor- 
rowed in my name of the tradespeople without authority. 
After an interval of Mrs. Kidgerbury — the oldest inhabitant 
of Kentish Town, I believe, who went out charing, but was too 
feeble to execute her conceptions of the art — we found another 
treasure, who was one of the most amiable of women, but 
who generally made a point of falling either up or down the 
kitchen stairs with the tray, and almost plunged into the par- 
lor, as into a bath, with the tea-things. The ravages commit- 
ted by this unfortunate rendering her dismissal necessary, she 
was succeeded (with intervals of Mrs. Kidgerbury) by a long- 
line of Incapables; terminating in a young person of genteel 
appearance, who went to Greenwich Fair in Dora's bonnet. 
After whom I remember nothing but an average equality of 
failure. 

Everybody we had anything to do with seemed to cheat us. 
Our appearance in a shop was a signal for the damaged goods 
to be brought out immediately. If we bought a lobster, it was 
full of water. All our meat turned out to be tough, and there 
was hardly any crust to our loaves. In search of the principle 
on which joints ought to be roasted, to be roasted enough, and 
not too much, I myself referred to the Cookery Book, and 
found it there established as the allowance of a quarter of an 



288 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

hour to every pound, and say a quarter over. But the principle 
always failed us by some curious fatality, and we never could 
hit any medium between redness and cinders. 

One of our first feats in the housekeeping way was a little 
dinner to Traddles. I met him in town and asked him to 
walk out with me that afternoon. He readily consenting, I 
wrote to Dora, saying I would bring him home. It was pleas- 
ant weather, and on the road we made my domestic happiness 
the theme of conversation. Traddles was very full of it; and 
said, that, picturing himself with such a home, and Sophy 
waiting and preparing for him, he could think of nothing 
wanting to complete his bliss. 

I could not have wished for a prettier little wife at the 
opposite end of the table, but I certainly could have wished, 
when we sat down, for a little more room. I did not know 
how it was, but though there were only two of us, we were 
at once always cramped for room, and yet had always room 
enough to lose everything in. I suspect it may have been be- 
cause nothing had a place of its own, except Jip's pagoda, which 
invariably blocked the main thoroughfare. On the present oc- 
casion, Traddles was so hemmed in by the pagoda and the 
guitar-case, and Dora's flower-painting and my writing-table, 
that I had serious doubts of the possibility of his using his 
knife apd fork; but he protested with his own good humor, 
"Oceans of room, Copperfield! I assure you, oceans!" 

There was another thing I could have wished; namely, 
that Jip had never been encouraged to walk about the table- 
cloth during dinner. I began to think there was something- 
disorderly in his being there at all, even if he had not been in 
the habit of putting his foot in the salt or the melted butter. 
On this occasion he seemed to think he was introduced ex- 
pressly to keep Traddles at bay; and he barked at my old 
friend and made short runs at his plate, with such undaunted 
pertinacity that he may be said to have engrossed the con- 
versation. 

However, as I knew how tender-hearted my dear Dora was, 
and how sensitive she would be to any slight upon her favorite, 
I hinted no objection. For similar reasons I made no allusion 
to the skirmishing plates upon the floor, or to the disreputable 
appearance of the castors, which were all at sixes and sevens, 



Modern times. 289 

and looked drunk; or to the further blockade of Traddles by- 
wandering vegetable dishes and jugs. I could not help won- 
dering in my own mind, as I contemplated the boiled leg of 
mutton before me, previous to carving it, how it came to pass 
that our joints of meat were of such extraordinary shapes — 
and whether our butcher contracted for all the deformed sheep 
that came into the world; but I kept my reflections to my- 
self. 

"My love," said I to Dora, "what have you got in that dish?" 

"Oysters, dear," said Dora, timidly. 

"Was that your thought?" said I, delighted. 

"Ye — yes, Doady," said Dora. 

"There never was a happier one!" I exclaimed, laying down 
the carving-knife and fork. "There is nothing Traddles likes 
..so much!" 

"Ye — yes, Doady," said Dora, "and so I bought a beautiful 
little barrel of them, and the man said they were very good. 
But I — I am afraid there's something the matter with them. 
They don't seem right." Here Dora shook her head, and dia- 
monds twinkled in her eyes. 

"They are only opened in both shells," said I, "Take the 
top one off, my love." 

"But it won't come off," said Dora, trying very hard and 
looking very much distressed. 

"Do you know, Oopperfield," said Traddles, cheerfully, 
examining the dish, "I think it is in consequence — they are 
capital oysters, but I think it is in consequence of their never 
having been opened." 

They never had been opened and we had no oyster-knives — 
and couldn't have used them if we had; so we looked at the 
oysters and ate the mutton. At least we ate as much of it 
as was done, and made up with capers. If I had permitted 
him, I am satisfied that Traddles would have made a perfect 
savage of himself and eaten a plateful of raw meat to express 
enjoyment of the repast; but I would hear of no such immo- 
lation on the altar of friendship; and we had a course of 
bacon instead, there happening, by good fortune, to be cold 
bacon in the larder. 



19 



290 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Thomas Carlyle (1795=1881). — Thomas Carlyle, a 
man so versatile in talent that he may be classed among 
philosophers, or historians, or biographers, or essayists, 
was born in Dumfrieshire, Scotland. After some prelim- 
inary instruction at Annan, he entered the University of 
Edinburgh, where he distinguished himself by his mathe- 
matical studies. His education was intended to fit him 
for the duties of a clergyman in the Scottish Kirk, but he 
resolved to forego that calling and devote himself to 
literature. 

His first publication was a translation of Legendre's 
Geometry with an original "Essay on Proportion." "His 
translation of Goethe's "Wilhelm Meister" betrayed a- 
direction of reading which materially influenced his future 
career. In 1834 he published "Sartor Res-artus" (The 
Patcher Re-patched), a work which at first aroused much 
ridicule and rebuke. The underlying idea of the book 
is that all creeds and institutions are but the garments of 
social life, and that they are now sadly threadbare. "The 
French Revolution, a History," his ablest w*ork, appeared 
in 1837, and it produced a profound impression on the 
public mind. The "History of Frederick II." cost Car- 
lyle fifteen years of labor; it fully displays the author's 
strong prejudices in every line of thought. His other 
works are "Chartism," "Past and Present," "Hero Wor- 
ship," "Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell," "Life 
of Schiller," and "Critical and Miscellaneous Essays." 

Carlyle is a worshipper of power, whether mental, phy- 
sical or political; and his chief heroes were Mohammed, 
Cromwell, Napoleon, and Frederick the Great. Two ele- 
ments were necessary to constitute the character of his 
heroes, revolt against authority and success in rebellion. 
He was very eccentric both in thought and style, having 



MODERN TIMES. 291 

been influenced in both these respects by his study of Ger- 
man literature. He had no sympathy for atheism or 
fanaticism, but on the other hand he rejected all divine 
revelation, and consequently denied the supernatural 
character of the Christian religion. 

FROM THE ESSAY ON BURNS. 

Contemplating the sad end of Burns — how he sank un- 
aided by any real help, uncheered by any wise sympathy, — 
generous minds have sometimes figured to themselves, with 
a reproachful sorrow, that much might have been done for 
him; that, by counsel, true affection and friendly minis- 
trations, he might have been saved to himself and the world. 
But it seems dubious whether the richest, wisest, most benevo- 
lent individual could have lent Burns any effectual help. 

Counsel, — which seldom profits any one, — he did not need. 
In his understanding, he knew the right from the wrong, 
as well, perhaps, as any man ever did; but the persuasion 
which would have availed him, lies not so much in the head 
as in the heart, where no argument or expostulation could have 
assisted much to implant it. 

As to money, we do not believe that this was his essential 
want; or well see that any private man could have bestowed 
on him an independent fortune, with much prospect of deci- 
sive advantage. It is a mortifying truth, that two men, in 
any rank of society, can hardly be found virtuous enough to 
give money, and to take it as a necessary gift, without an 
injury to the moral entireness of one or both. But so stands 
the fact: Friendship, in the old heroic sense of the term, no 
longer exists; it is in reality no longer expected, or recognized 
as a virtue among men. A close observer of manners has 
pronounced "patronage," — that is, pecuniary or economic fur- 
therance, — to be "twice cursed;" cursing him that gives, and 
him that takes! And thus in regard to outward matters, it 
has become the rule, as, in regard to inward, it always was 
and must be the rule, that no one shall look for effectual help 
to another; but that each shall rest contented with what 
help he can afford himself. 

We have already stated our doubts whether direct pecuniary 



292 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

help, had it been offered, would have been accepted, or could 
have proved very effectual. We shall readily admit, however, 
that much was to be done for Burns; that many a poisoned 
arrow might have been warded from his bosom; many an 
entanglement in his path cut asunder by the hand of the 
powerful; light and heat shed on him from high places, would 
have made his humble atmosphere more genial; and the softest 
heart then breathing might have lived and died with fewer 
pangs. Still we do not think that the blame of Burns' failure 
lies chiefly with the world. The world, it seems to us, treated 
him with more, rather than with less kindness than it usually 
shows to such men. It has ever, we fear, shown but small 
favour to its teachers: hunger and nakedness, perils and revil- 
ing, the prison, the poison-chalice, the Cross, have, in most 
times and countries, been the market-price it has offered for 
wisdom — the welcome with which it has treated those who 
have come to enlighten and purify it. We reckon that every 
poet of Burns' order is, or should be, a prophet and teacher 
to his age; that he has no right to expect kindness, but rather 
is bound to do it; that Burns, in particular, experienced fully 
the usual proportion of goodness; and that the blame of his 
failure, as we have said, lies not chiefly with the world. 

Where .then does it lie? We are forced to answer, with 
himself: it is his inward, not his outward misfortunes, that' 
bring him to the dust. Seldom, indeed, is it otherwise; seldom 
is a life morally wrecked, but the grand cause lies in some 
internal mal-arrangement, — some want, less of good fortune 
than of good guidance. Nature fashions no creature without 
implanting in it the strength needful for its action and dura- 
tion; least of all does she neglect her master-piece and dar- 
lings — the poetic soul! Neither can we believe that it is in 
the power of any external circumstances utterly to ruin the 
mind of a man; nay,— if proper wisdom be given him, — even so 
much as to affect its essential health and beauty. The stern- 
est sum-total of all worldly misfortunes is Death; nothing 
more can lie in the cup of human woe: yet many men, in 
all ages, have triumphed over death, and led it captive; con- 
verting its physical victory into a moral victory for themselves 
—into a seal and immortal consecration for all that their past 
life had achieved. What has been done may be done again; 



MODERN TIMES. 293 

nay, it is but the degree, and not the kind, of such heroism, 
that differs in different seasons: for, without some portion 
of this spirit, not of boisterous daring, but of silent fearless- 
ness — of self-denial in all its forms, no great man, in any scene 
or time, has ever attained to be good. 

Thomas de Quincey (1786=1859).— Thomas de Quin- 
cey, the son of a wealthy merchant, was born in Manches- 
ter, England. After the death of his father he was sent to 
a grammar school at Bath, but ran away in the following 
year, and after a pedestrian tour in Wales, lived some time 
in extreme poverty in London. He subsequently studied 
at Oxford without taking a degree. In 1808 he became 
acquainted with Coleridge and Wordsworth, and was 
induced to settle at Grassmere. During his stay at Oxford 
he contracted the habit of opium-eating. He finally suc- 
ceeded in conquering it, but only after it had perma- 
nently injured his extraordinary mental powers. 

His best works are his "Confessions of an Opium 
Eater," and his "Essays." His critical faculty is delicate 
and subtle, but not always reliable. The exquisite finish 
of his style and the scholastic vigor of his logic form a 
combination which is one of the marvels of English litera- 
ture. 

The following passage from De Quincey has relation 
to the subject of prose rhythm, and is further interesting 
as being in itself a good illustration of rhythmic prose : 

Where out of Sir Thomas Browne, shall we hope to find 
music so Miltonic, an intonation of such solemn chords as are 
struck in the following opening bar of a passage in the "Urn- 
Burial: "Now since these bones have rested quietly in the 
grave, under the drums and tramplings of three conquests, etc." 
What a melodious ascent as of a prelude to some impassioned 
requiem breathing from the pomps of the earth and the 
sanctities of the grave! What a fluctus decumanus of rhetoric! 
Time expounded not by generations or centuries, but by vast 



294 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

periods of conquests and dynasties; by cycles of Pharaohs and 
Ptolemies, Antiochi and Arxacides! And these vast succes- 
sions of time, distinguished and figured by the uproars which 
revolve at their inaugurations — by the drums and tramplings 
rolling overhead, upon the chambers of forgotten dead — the 
trepidations of time and mortality vexing, at secular intervals, 
the everlasting Sabbaths of the grave! 

Frederick William Faber (1814=1863). — Frederick 
William Faber, the son of an Anglican clergyman, was 
born in Yorkshire, England. He was graduated at Ox- 
ford in 1836 and soon after became rector of Elton. In 
1835 he won the Newdigate prize for poetry, his subject 
being the "Knights of St. John." A few years later he 
published two volumes of poetry called from the open- 
ing poems in each, "The Cherwell Water Lily" and "The 
Styrian Lake." Wordsworth declared that had not Fred- 
erick Faber devoted himself so completely to the duties 
of his ministry, he would have been the poet of the age. 
But Faber's ambition was not for earthly fame. After 
years of prayer and study he followed the example of his 
guide, Dr. Newman, and made his submission to the 
Catholic Church, whose glory it is that she could equally 
satisfy the mighty intellect of the one and the sensitive 
heart of the other. Having been raised to the priesthood, 
Father Faber joined the Oratory of St. Philip Neri, lately 
introduced into England by Dr. Newman. 

His principal works are "All for Jesus," "Growth in 
Holiness," "The Creator and the Creature," "The Foot 
of the Cross," and "Spiritual Conferences." In these the 
mysteries, doctrines, and devotional practices of Chris- 
tianity are presented in a manner imaginative, eloquent 
and full of unction. 

The last two years of Father Faber's life were years of 
continual disease and suffering, but he never lost that 






MODERN TIMES. 295 

serenity of soul and that fascination of manners which 
in him were characteristic traits. 

THE ONE WANT. 
One thing is wanting, one bright thing on earth, 

To fill the cup of life unto the brim, 
The measure and completion of my mirth, 

For lack of which days tarnish and grow dim. 

earth! world! life! ye should have bred 
For one like me more sorrow, pain, and fears; 

Whereas from you, as from your flowery bed, 
Hath breath, like incense, breathed for all my years. 

Why should I blame? Ye do your best; ye give 
What ye can give, and still my heart goes free. 

Gay thing! it makes the world in which I live, 
And it is bright, too bright a world for me. 

One thing is wanting to me, one bright thing, 
Which being absent, I am poor indeed; — 

It is my mother's life to be' a spring 
Of a more virtuous gladness which I need. 

1 have been happy and am happy now, 
Yet do I crave the most when happiest, 

For the cold sense of my one want doth grow 
In the proportion wherein I am blest. 

At the dread altar, when I might lose sight 

Of my unworthiness amid the stir 
Of high and swelling thoughts, it is a blight 

To pride, that I can be not priest to her. 

In the rare woods when I've given birth 
To songs her memory would have loved to treasure, 

That she is absent mars the rising mirth, 
Twining my heart to life's sober measure. 

When I have walked half giddy on the ledge 

To which men's praise, like tempters, souls will bear — 

The want, the single want, hath been the wedge, 
Cleaving my soul for Heaven to enter there. 



296 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Charles Lamb (1775=1834). — Charles Lamb, though 

not a popular writer, will always remain a favorite with 
readers of culture. The recurring insanity of his sister, 
whom he loved with the utmost tenderness, imparted a 
melancholy to his writings even where they seem to 
abound in good humor. The brother and sister shared 
in the authorship and publication of some works for 
children — "Tales from Shakespeare," "Mrs. Leicester's 
School," "The Adventures of Ulysses," and "Poetry for 
Children." 

Lamb contributed a series of essays to the London 
Magazine, and to these desultory compositions he owes 
his fame. In these "Essays of Elia," we find delicacy of 
feeling, quaint humor, and a subtle and peculiar charm 
of style. In his poems, as, for instance, the "Old Familiar 
Faces," and his few but beautiful sonnets, we find a 
marked tenderness of fancy, the simplicity of the child 
and the learning of the scholar. Excellent as are his 
writings they are but a pale reflex of his powers of con- 
versation. 

OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 
I have had playmates, I have had companions, 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women; 
Closed are her doors on me; I must not see her — 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 



MODERN TIMES. 2S7 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood; 
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces — 

How some they have died, and some they have left me, 
And some are taken from me; all are departed; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

George Eliot (1820=1880). — "George Eliot" (Mary 
Ann Evans, Mrs. Cross), the greatest female novelist that 
England has produced, was born at Asbury Farm, War- 
wickshire, England. Her childhood seems to have been 
rather serene than otherwise, and as she grew into woman- 
hood, unusual love and veneration marked her relations 
to her widowed father, the prototype of Adam Bede. She 
was carefully educated, receiving a special training in 
Latin, French and English composition. In her early 
years she was a Christian, but unfortunately she imbibed 
the ideas of agnosticism and her works reflect the doc- 
trines with which her mind was imbued. A vein of sad- 
ness underlies all her writings, not on account of any per- 
sonal sorrow, but from her perception of the ills that 
affect mankind. A code of morals from which God is 
excluded and, with Him, the hope of another life, is in- 
deed a feeble help to the weakness of mankind. 

Her most important works are "Scenes of Clerical 
Life," "The Mill on the Floss," "Silas Marner," "Adam 
Bede," "Romola," "Middlemarch," and "Daniel Deron- 
da." In dramatic force, in variety of types, in life-like 
blending of pathos and humor, these novels surpass any- 
thing else in English fiction. In them, development of 
character, not intricacy of plot, is the motive. 

A sudden illness closed her life in the year 1880. 



298 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

FROM THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
There is something sustaining in the very agitation that 
accompanies the first shocks of trouble, just as an acute pain 
is often a stimulus, and produces an excitement which is 
transient strength. It is in the slow, changed life that fol- 
lows — in the time when sorrow has become stale, and has 
no longer an emotive intensity that counteracts its pain — 
in the time when day follows day in unexpectant sameness, 
and trial is a dreary routine; — it is then that despair threat- 
ens: it is then that the peremptory hunger of the soul is felt, 
and eye and ear are strained after some unlearned secret of 
our existence, which shall give to endurance the nature of 
satisfaction. 

We could never have loved the earth so well if we had 
had no childhood in it, — if it were not the earth where the 
same flowers come up again every spring that we _used to 
gather with our tiny fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves 
on the grass — the same hips and haws on the autumn hedge- 
rows — the same redbreasts that we used to call "God's birds," 
because they did no harm to the precious crops. What novelty 
is worth that sweet monotony where everything is known, 
and loved because it is known? 

The wood I walk in on this mild May-day, with the young 
yellow-brown foliage of the oaks between me and the blue 
sky, the white star-flowers and the blue-eyed speedwell and the 
ground ivy at my feet — what grove of tropic palms, what 
strange ferns or splendid broad-petalled blossoms, could ever 
thrill such deep and delicate fibres within me as this home- 
scene? These familiar flowers, these well-remembered bird- 
notes, this sky with its fitful brightness, these furrowed and 
grassy fields, each with a sort of personality given to it by 
the capricious hedge-rows — such things as these are the 
mother-tongue of our imagination, the language that is laden 
with all the subtle inextricable associations the fleeting hours 
of our childhood left behind them. Our delight in the sunshine 
on the deep-bladed grass to-day, might be no more than the 
faint perception of wearied souls, if it were not for the sun- 
shine and the grass in the far-off years which still live in us, 
and transform our perception into love. 




GEORGE ELIOT. 



MODERN TIMES. 801 

Richard Lalor Sheil (1793=1851). — Richard Lalor 
Sheil won celebrity by his political and patriotic speeches. 
His graphic "Sketches of the Irish Bar," and his dramas, 
"Adelaide," "The Apostate," and "Evadne," will give him 
a lasting place in literature. As an example of his style 
we quote an extract from his speech on the death of 
Frederick Augustus, the Duke of York. 

The pomp of death will for a few nights fill the gilded 
apartment in which his body will lie in state. He will be laid 
in a winding-sheet fringed with silver and with gold; he will 
be inclosed in spicy wood; and his illustrious descent and his 
withered hopes will be inscribed upon his glittering coffin. The 
bell of St. Paul's will toll, and London, rich, luxurious, Baby- 
Ionic London, will start at the recollection that even kings 
must die. The day of his solemn obsequies will arrive, the 
gorgeous procession will go forth in its funereal glory, the 
ancient chapel of Windsor Castle will be thrown open, and 
its aisles will be thronged with the array of kindred royalty, 
the emblazoned windows will be illuminated, the notes of 
holy melody will arise, the beautiful service of the dead will 
be repeated by the heads of the Church of which he will be 
the cold and senseless champion, the vaults of the dead will 
be unclosed, the nobles and the ladies and the high priests 
of the land will look down into those deep depositories of 
the ambition and the vanities of the world. They will behold 
the heir to a great empire taking possession, not of the palace 
which was raised at such an enormous and unavailing cost, 
but of that "house which lasts till doomsday." The torches 
will fade in the open daylight, the multitude of the great will 
gradually disperse, the business and the pursuits and the 
frivolities of life will be resumed, and the heir to the three 
kingdoms will in a week be forgotten! We, too, shall forget; 
but let us before we forget, forgive him! 

Dr. John Lingard (1771=1851) was born in Win 
Chester, England, of Catholic parentage. He studied at 
Douay until the terrors of the French Revolution forced 
him to return to his native country. He completed his 



302 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

course of theology in England, and was ordained priest 
in April, 1795. His reputation as a historian rests upon 
his great work, the "History of England from the Inva- 
sion of the Romans to the Accession of William and 
Mary." The Edinburgh Review says of Dr. Lingard: "His 
style is nervous and concise and never enfeebled by use- 
less epithets or encumbered with redundant, unmeaning 
phrases. His narrative has a freshness of character, a 
stamp of originality not to be found in any general history 
of England in common use." Cardinal Wiseman says: 
"When Hume shall have fairly taken his place among the 
classical writers of our tongue, and Macaulay shall have 
been transferred to the shelves of romancers and poets, 
and each shall have thus received his due meed of praise, 
then Lingard will be still more conspicuous as the only 
impartial historian of our country." 

Henry Hallara (1778=1859) is the author of the "His- 
tory of the Middle Ages," "Constitutional History of Eng- 
land," and "Introduction to the Literature of England in 
the Fifteenth, Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries," any 
one of which is sufficient to confer literary immortality 
upon him. These works display a vigorous spirit of 
inquiry and criticism, but they are frequently disfigured 
by an involuntary prejudice against Catholicity. 

George Grote (1794=1871) wrote the "History of 
Greece," "Plato and the Other Companions of Socrates." 
His "History of Greece" is the best ever published. 

Thomas William M. Marshall (1815=1877), at one 
time an Anglican clergyman, deserves an eminent place 
among the wittiest English writers. In the preparation 
of his first work, "Notes on Episcopacy," his researches 
and reflections having convinced him of the "utter human- 



MODERN TIMES. 303 

ism and senseless contradictions of the Anglican religion," 
he left it in 1845, an d was received into the church by 
Cardinal Wiseman. "To give up at thirty years of age, 
just married, with no private fortune, the profession of 
clergyman in the Church of England to become a Catholic 
layman was an act not only of remarkable honesty, but of 
superhuman courage." His principal works are "Christian 
Missions," "The Comedy of Convocation," which was 
pronounced the best satire since the time of Swift, "Our 
Protestant Contemporaries," "Sketch of the Reforma- 
tion," and "My Clerical Friends." 

Kenelm Digby (1800-1880), a convert to the Catholic 
Church, wrote "More's Catholici" (Ages of Faith), which 
Hallam, the historian, declared to be delightful reading; 
"The Broad Stone of Honor," a treatise on Christian 
chivalry, and "Evenings on the Thames." 

Walter Savage Landor (1776=1864) ranks among the 
best essayists of his time. His prose, though strictly pro- 
saic in form, was more imaginative than were the verses 
of other men. In his "Imaginary Conversations," the 
work upon which his fame rests, he portrays in a marvel- 
ously vivid manner the thoughts and views of famous 
personages who lived in Rome and Greece centuries ago. 

Leigh Hunt (1784=1859) was a genial poet and critic, 
author of "Rimini," "A Legend of Florence," "The Pal- 
frey," and collections of "Essays." 

Sir Edward George Bulwer Lytton (1805=1873) when 
but twenty years of age won the Cambridge Chan- 
cellor's prize by his poem on "Sculpture," but his emin- 
ence as a man of letters was attained in prose. His prin- 
cipal novels are "Eugene Aram," "The Last Days of Pom- 
peii," "Rienzi," "Harold" and "The Last of the Barons." 



304 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

His earliest novels have been deservedly censured as im- 
moral or as deficient in genuine art. His dramas, "Riche- 
lieu" and "The Lady of Lyons," are still very successful. 

Gerald Griffin (1803=1840) was the greatest of Irish 
novelists. His principal works are "Hollandtide," "Tales 
of the Munster Festivals," and "The Collegians." In 
1838 he entered the Institute of the Christian Brothers 
with the intention of devoting his life to the cause of 
education pursued by the order, but before the expiration 
of two years of preparation he was carried off by a con- 
tagious fever. 

John Banim (1798=1842) was an Irish novelist and 

dramatist who rose to literary distinction in London. 
His best tragedy, "Damon and Pythias," was performed 
with great success by the celebrated actors Macready and 
Kemble. His best novels are "Father Connell," "The 
Boyne Water," "Tales of the O'Hara Family," "The De- 
nounced" and "The Smuggler." His writings are dis- 
figured by a "sort of overstrained excitement, and a willful 
dwelling upon turbulent and unchastened passions." He 
wrote some fine lyrics, among which "Soggarth Aroon" 
is remarkable for its exquisite beauty. 

Charles Reade (1814=1884) was a noted novelist 
whose works display- intense hatred toward the Catholic 
Church. He wrote "Peg Woffmgton," "Griffith Gaunt," 
"Never Too Late to Mend," "Hard Cash" and "The 
Cloister on the Hearth." 

Captain Frederick Marryatt (1792=1848) wrote many 
sea tales, in almost all of which a tinge of vulgarity is ob- 
servable. The principal novels are "Peter Simple," 
"Jacob Faithful," "Midshipman Easy" and "The Phan- 
tom Ship." 




CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 



MODERN TIMES. 307 

Jane Austen (1775=1817) was a successful novelist 
whose skill in clothing commonplace things with a mantle 
of interest has never been surpassed. She wrote "Pride 
and Prejudice," "Sense and Sensibility," "Mansfield 
Park," "Northanger Abbey," "Emma" and "Persuasion." 

Samuel Lover (1797=1868) wrote songs and novels 
descriptive of Irish life; their prevailing characteristic is 
a wholesome humor. His best novels are "Handy Andy," 
"Rory O'More" and "Treasure Trove." 

Charles Lever (1806=1870) was a popular novelist 
who won fame by his delineations of Irish life and charac- 
ter. He wrote "Harry Lorrequer," "Charles O'Malley," 
"Tom Burke" and other novels. 

Charlotte Bronte (1816=1855) was the literary forerun- 
ner of George Eliot. She distinguished herself as a 
novelist by her skill in portraying tragic characters, pow- 
erfully delineating the realities which society ignored. All 
her works were written in the stress of mental suffering, 
and her materials were taken from her limited experience. 
Her best works are "Jane Eyre," "Shirley" and "Villette." 

Anthony Trollope (1815=1882) was a prolific novelist. 
He wrote "Barchester Towers," "Orley Farm," "La Ven- 
dee" and many other works. 

Lady Georgiana Fullerton (1814=1885) wrote many 
novels which are all productive of. good. "Lady Bird" 
was written after her conversion to Catholicity. It de- 
scribes her religious struggles. Her other works are 
"Ellen Middleton," "Grantley Manor," "Constance Sher- 
wood," "A Stormy Life" and "Mrs. Gerald's Niece." 



308 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Dinah Maria Muloch (Mrs. Cralk) (1826=1877) wrote 
many excellent novels, among which are "John Halifax, 
Gentleman," "A Brave Lady," "Woman's Kingdom," 
"The Ogilvies" and "King Arthur." 

Charles Kingsley (1819=1875), a clergyman of the 
Church of England, wrote many novels; among them are 
"Hypatia," "Westward Ho!" "Two Years Ago" and "Al- 
ton Locke." 

Henry Hart Milman (1791=1868), dean of St. Paul's, 
London, wrote "The History of the Jews," "The History 
of Christianity," "The Martyr of Antioch," "The Fall of 
Jerusalem," "Belshazzar" and "Fazio, a Tragedy." 

Thomas D'Arcy McGee (1826=1868) was the author 

of "The History of Ireland," which possesses the merits 
of impartiality and accuracy. 

Sidney Smith (1771=1845), a clergyman of the Church 
of England, and one of the founders of the Edinburgh Re- 
view, contributed to it many brilliant essays on politics, 
literature and philosophy. His "Letters of Peter Plym- 
ley" helped to restore the political and social rights of his 
Catholic fellow-subjects. It is to be regretted that the 
author in these letters unfairly assails the religious doc- 
trines of Catholics. 

Francis Lord Jeffrey (1773=1850) as editor of the 
Edinburgh Review made it a great literary and political 
power. His contributions to this journal were original 
and brilliant disquisitions on highly important subjects 
of philosophy, politics, history and literature. 



DINAH MARIA CRAIK. 



MODERN TIMES. 311 

Agnes Strickland (1796=1874) gained literary distinc- 
tion by her famous "Lives of the Queens of England," 
"Lives of the Queem of Scotland" and "Lives of the 
Bachelor Kings of England." 

Mrs. Anna Jameson (1797=1860) is an authority in art 
literature. Her principal works are "Lives of the Early 
Italian Painters," "Characteristics of Women," "Poetry 
of Sacred and Legendary Art," and "Memoirs of Cele- 
brated Female Sovereigns." 

Charles Darwin, Thomas Henry Huxley, John Tyndall and 
Herbert Spencer are eminent scientists in their par- 
ticular fields. It is to be regretted that they have made 
the fascinating beauty of their style subservient to the 
spreading of many false and infidel theories. 



AMERICAN LITERATURE. 



CHAPTER VII. 

COLONIAL AND REVOLUTIONARY PERIODS (1640-1830). 

The colonial period of our history was most unfavorable 
to the production of literature. The colonists lived in 
small villages, scattered along a thousand miles of sea- 
coast, and were engaged in a constant struggle for ex- 
istence. They had no special impulse to literary work, 
nor was there any apparent need of a native literature, 
since books in their own language were supplied in abun- 
dance. The intellectual manifestations of this period 
w r ere nearly all of a theological character, for with the 
Puritans, religion was the ruling passion, and all things 
else they regarded as useless. Catholics at this time found 
no more toleration in the New World than they had en- 
joyed at home. For two brief periods they rose to power, 
once in Maryland under Lord Baltimore, and once in 
New York during the reign of James II., the last Catholic 
King of England. In both of these periods the adherents 
of all creeds were permitted to worship God according to 
the dictates of their conscience. 

The revolutionary period was equally unfavorable to 
authorship. During the years of active warfare few men 



314 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

could be spared for the pursuit of literature, and when 
the war was over, the land was desolate and the people 
had to toil for their daily bread. Literature does not 
thrive without leisure and quiet, and these essentials were 
sadly needed throughout the revolutionary period. Amer- 
ican literature may be said to have begun in 1640, the 
year in which the first book was printed in this country. 
This was the "Bay Psalm Book," which came from the 
printing press of Harvard College, Cambridge, Massa- 
chusetts. The earliest specimens of our literature are 
marked by rudeness of diction and servile imitation of 
English models. 

George Sandys (1577=1643) held the post of treasurer 
in the colony of Virginia. While residing upon the 
banks of the James River, he made a pleasing translation 
of Ovid's "Metamorphoses," which was printed in Lon- 
don in 1626. Like Sir John Mandeville, the first English 
prose writer, Sandys was a distinguished traveler, and his 
works describing the countries of the Mediterranean and 
the Holy Land enjoyed great popularity. 

Roger Williams (1606=1683) " was a distinguished 
champion of civil and religious liberty in this country. He 
founded the city of Providence as a haven of religious 
liberty, and was not to be diverted either by threats or 
by flattery from what he believed to be his duty. The 
most famous of his writings bears the title "The Bloody 
Tenet of Persecution for Cause of Conscience." 

James Otis (1724=1783) was a scholarly lawyer and 
an uncompromising foe to arbitrary British rule in Amer- 
ica. In 1 761 he delivered his famous speech against the 
"writs of assistance." Of this speech President Adams 



COLONIAL AND REVOLUTIONARY PERIODS. 315 

said: "Otis's eloquence was a flame of fire. He swept 
all before him. American independence was then and 
there born." His principal political writings are "The 
Rights of the British Colonists Asserted and Proved" 
and "A Vindication of the British Colonists." The last 
years of his life were spent at Andover, where in 1783 he 
was struck by lightning and died instantly. 

Benjamin Franklin (1706=1790), a scientist, states- 
man and philosopher, rose from the humblest rank in life 
to the most honorable position the nation could offer. 
He was taken from school at ten years of age and set at 
work helping his father, a tallow-chandler. He next 
became a printer, then a publisher. In 17,32 appeared 
his celebrated work, "Poor Richard's Almanac." His 
theory of the identity of lightning and electricity he estab- 
lished by his famous kite experiment in 1752. He was 
prominent in all movements for the public welfare, and 
it was chiefly through his instrumentality that the obnox- 
ious "Stamp Act" was repealed. He was one of those 
who signed the "Declaration of Independence," he served 
as Minister Plenipotentiary to France, and signed the 
definitive treaty of peace with Great Britain. His prin- 
cipal works are his "Autobiography," his "Essays" and 
his "Correspondence." 

Francis Hopkinson (1737=1791) was celebrated as a 
judge, a statesman and a prose-writer, but he is best 
remembered by his Revolutionary ballad, "The Battle 
of the Kegs." 

Joseph Hopkinson (1770=1842), the son of Francis 
Hopkinson, distinguished himself at the bar and was 
appointed Judge of the United States District Court, an 
office which he held till his death. In 1798, when party 



316 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

spirit ran high on the side of France or England, then 
engaged in war, he wrote the popular national song, 
''Hail Columbia." 

Philip Frenean* (1652=1732) was the first Amer- 
ican poet whose verses were much read in England. As 
editor of the National Gazette, he made his name familiar 
and popular by his political burlesque and invective. His 
poems are noted for their freshness and originality. One 
of the most graceful among them is: 

THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE. 
Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, 

Hid in this silent dull retreat, 
Untouched thy honeyed blossoms blow, 

Unseen thy little branches greet: 

No roving foot shall crush thee here, 

No busy hand provoke a tear. 

By Nature's self in white arrayed, 

She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, 
And planted here the guardian shade, 

And sent soft waters running by: 

Thus quietly thy summer goes, 

Thy days declining to repose. 

Smit with these charms that must decay, 

I grieve to see your future doom. 
They died, — nor were those flowers more gay, 

The Cowers that did in Eden bloom; 

Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power 

Shall leave no vestige of this flower. 

From morning suns and evening dews 

At first thy little being came, 
If nothing once, you nothing lose, 

For when you die you are the same; 

The space between is but an hour, 

The frail duration of a flower. 




BEN FRANKLIN. 



COLONIAL AND REVOLUTIONARY PERIODS. 319 

Thomas Jefferson (1743=1826) is, of all our great 
men, the truest representative of republican ideas. As 
a literary man he was the peer of any of his contem- 
poraries, but it is to be regretted that his works are fre- 
quently marred by attacks upon Christianity and espe- 
cially upon the authority of the Holy Scriptures. He 
wrote "Notes on the State of Virginia" and a ''Parlia- 
mentary Manual," but no literary work could add to the 
fame won by him as author of the "Declaration of Inde- 
pendence." 

Alexander Hamilton (1757=1804) was Washington's 
most confidential aid-de-camp. His published reports 
as Secretary of the Treasury have given him the 
reputation of being the best financier of the New World. 
His essays, published in a volume under the title of "The 
Federalist," constitute one of the most profound and lucid 
treatises on politics that have ever been written. His 
life was terminated by a wound received in a duel with 
Vice-President Aaron Burr. 

James Madison (1751=1836), the fourth President of 
the United States, was celebrated for his papers in 
The Federalist. "To him and to Hamilton," says Judge 
Story, "I think we are mainly indebted for the Constitu- 
tion of the United States." 

John Adams (1735=1826), the second President of 
the United States, wrote several important political works, 
among which are "A Dissertation on Canon and Feudal 
Law," "A Defense of the Constitution of the United 
States" and "Discourses on Davila; a series of Papers 
on American History." Two volumes of "Letters," 
addressed to his wife, have a permanent place in litera- 
ture. 



S20 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

John Marshall (1755=1835) was for thirty-five years 
Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, 
an office with which his name is inseparably connected 
by reason of his learning, intelligence and integrity. Of 
the public and private worth of this illustrious man it is 
impossible to speak too highly. His "Life of Washing- 
ton," in five volumes, is a faithful and interesting narra- 
tive. 

William Wirt (1772=1834), an eminent lawyer of 
Maryland, wrote "Letters of the British Spy" and a "Life 
of Patrick Henry." 

Hugh Henry Brackenridge (1748=1816), of Philadelphia, 
teacher, editor, preacher and lawyer in turn, had 
literary fame in his day. His "Modern Chivalry: The 
Adventures of Captain Farrago" still gives him reputa- 
tion as a humorist. 




CHAPTER VIII. 

NATIONAL PERIOD (1830-1895). 

This period is called national, because at this time our 
literature begins to assume a national importance and 
to show signs of a distinct national life, challenging the 
attention of the world and showing the results of Amer- 
ican thought and culture. In the early years of the cen- 
tury Sydney Smith asked in the Edinburgh, Review: 
"Who reads an American book?" The change which 
time has made in this condition of affairs is best shown 
by the remark of the London Athenaeum in 1880: "An 
American book has nearly always something fresh and 
striking about it to English readers." It is true that 
American writers can now compare favorably with the 
great ones of English literature, but it is to be regretted 
that much of American literature is disfigured by an anti- 
Catholic or materialistic spirit. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807=1882). 

"His chief qualities are a gentle soothing power to hearts 
in trouble or not hopeful, a real Catholic spirit with a hold 
on the unseen hut real world, as real as the world that we 
see, a spirit that is the basis of true art, and a deep soul- 
moving pathos." — O'Connor. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born February 27, 
1807, at Portland, Maine. His mother was a descendant 
of the John Alden he celebrates in his "Courtship of 
Miles Standish;" his father was the Hon. Stephen Long- 
fellow. At the age of fourteen years he entered Bowdoin 
21 



322 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

College, and with Hawthorne and others was graduated 
in the celebrated class of 1825. The success of his col- 
lege career may be inferred from the fact that on grad- 
uating he was invited to the chair of modern languages 
and literature in his alma mater. In order the better to 
prepare for this appointment he spent some years in trav- 
eling through France, Italy, Spain, Germany, Holland 
and England, and the effects of this visit were manifold. 
It broadened his views, strengthened his self-confidence, 
and supplied him with poetical themes. Imbibing the 
spirit of the countries in which he dwelt, he blended the 
tenderness of the Germans, the passion of the Spanish, 
and the vivacity of the French with the coldness and de- 
liberation of the English; but over all predominated the 
rich and tender feeling, the sympathy and charity of the 
sweet poet's soul. 

On his return from a second visit to Europe he bought 
the old Craigie House in Cambridge, Mass., and in this 
quaint, old wooden house, which had been occupied by 
Washington when he took command of the army in 1776, 
the poet dwelt for nearly a quarter of a century, and here 
he died. His highest ambition was to be a worthy man, 
and, through sympathy and love, to help others to live, 
and life to him meant more than mere existence. His 
beautiful character was mirrored in all he wrote, and the 
attentive reader knew him well. In the whole range of 
his writings there is nothing that, dying, he could wish 
to recall; few authors have left a more honorable record. 

Critics differ in their estimate of his rank as a poet. 

The exalted treasure of celestial thought, the dramatic 

" power of intense passion, the mystic subtlety of refined 

ideals, he did not claim; nor did he deem himself the 

peer of the "grand old masters." He did not aim at 




H. W. LONGFELLOW. 



NATIONAL PERIOD. 325 

enlightening the age in which he lived, and if we look 
into his poetry for profound psychological analysis, or 
new insights into nature, we shall be disappointed. 

The reputation of Longfellow rests mainly on the 
exquisite poem "Evangeline," and of his longer poems 
this is unquestionably the masterpiece. It is an imitation 
of Goethe's "Hermann and Dorothea." The hexameter 
so long continued occasions a disagreeable cadence, but 
no other measure could have told the lovely story with 
such effect. The charm of the poem is without doubt the 
character of Evangeline, teaching, as it does, that patience 
and devotedness may, when exercised with religious 
purity of heart, rise to the scale of heroic virtues. One 
incident in the poem fixes itself upon the memory with 
startling reality, for few of us, whatever may be the object 
of our pursuit, have not felt that at some time we were 
close to that object and yet missed it. We allude to that 
passage where, after long travel, the weary wanderers 
moor their boat by a woody island in the Mississippi, and, 
resting, slumber. At last Gabriel is approaching — 

Nearer, and ever nearer, among the numberless islands, 
Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the water, 
Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters and trap- 
pers. 
Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the bison and 

beaver. 
At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtful and 

careworn. 
Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and a sad- 
ness 
Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly written. 
Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and restless, 
Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of sorrow. 

But they do not meet. He passes the slumberer with- 
out seeing her, and they drift apart again. 



326 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed endeavor, 
Ended, to recommence do more upon earth, uncomplaining, 
Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her thoughts and 

her footsteps. 
As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morning 
Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, 
Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and hamlets, 
So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the world far 

below her, 
Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and the pathway 
Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fair in the 

distance. 
Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was his image, 
Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last she beheld 

him, 
Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and absence. 
Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it was not. 
Over him years had no power; he was not changed, but trans- 
figured; 
He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and not absent; 
Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others, 
This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had taught her. 
So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous spices, 
Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with aroma. 
Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow 
Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her Saviour. 

Another of the author's longer poems is the "Golden 
Legend/' a sketch of Europe during the Middle Ages. 
It abounds in scenes illustrative of the manners and relig- 
ion of that time; against one scene we must protest 
strongly; it accords ill with the following lines, referring 
to the old illuminator of the Scriptorium and the Abbot 
Ernestus: 

Friar Pacificus. It is growing dark! Yet one line more, 
And then my work for to-day is o'er. 
I come again to the name of the Lord! 
Ere I that awful name record, 



NATIONAL PERIOD. 327 

That is spoken so lightly among men, 
Let me pause awhile, and wash my pen; 
Pure from blemish and blot must it be 
When it writes the word of mystery! 
Thus have I labored on and on, 
Nearly through the Gospel of John. 
Can it be that from the lips 
Of this same gentle Evangelist, 
That Christ himself perhaps has kissed, 
Came the dreadful Apocalypse! 

The Abbot Ernestus speaks thus: 

Time has laid his hand 
Upon my heart, gently, not smiting it, 
But as a harper lays his open palm 
Upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations. 
Ashes are on my head, and on my lips 
Sackcloth, and in my breast a heaviness 
And weariness of life, that makes me ready 
To say to the dead Abbots under us, 
"Make room for me!" Only I see the dusk 
Of evening twilight coming, and have not 
Completed half my task; and so at times 
The thought of my shortcomings in this life 
Falls like a shadow on the life to come. 

His chosen province was the level of ordinary life and 
he strikes the chords of human sympathy with delicate 
tenderness. His subjects are for the most part those that 
influence by their pathos, and for heroic deeds preserved 
in legend or history, records of devotion and self-sacrifice, 
and quaint old tales, he had a special fondness. 

We name his chief writings in the order in which they 
appeared before the public: "Coplas de Manrique," 
translated from the Spanish, "Outre-Mer, a Pilgrimage 
Beyond the Sea," "Hyperion, a Romance," "Voices of the 
Night," "Ballads and Other Poems," "Poems on Slavery," 
"The Spanish Student, a Play," "The Belfry of Bruges 



328 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

and Other Poems," "Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie," 
"Kavanagh," 'The Seaside and the Fireside," "The 
Golden Legend," "The Poets and Poetry of Europe," 
"The Song of Hiawatha," "The Courtship of Miles 
Standish," "Tales of a Wayside Inn," "New England 
Tragedies," "The Divine Tragedy," translation of Dante's 
"Divina Commedia," "Sonnets," "Morituri Salutamus," 
"Ultima Thule'' and "Hermes Trismegistus." England 
has honored his memory by giving his bust a place in 
Westminster Abbey. 

MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes, 
In whose orbs a shadow lies, 
Like the dusk in evening skies! 

Thou whose looks outshine the sun, 
Golden tresses wreathed in one, 
As the braided streamlets run! 

Standing, with reluctant feet, 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet! 

Gazing, with a timid glance, 
On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem, 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly? 



NATIONAL PERIOD. 329 



Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract's roar? 

O, thou child of many prayers! 

Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares! 

Care and age come unawares! 

Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon, 
May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough, where slumbered, 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered; 
Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
When the young heart overflows, 
To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
In thy heart the dew of youth, 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 

O, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds that cannot heal, 
E'en as sleep our eyes doth seal; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart, 
For a smile of God thou art. 

William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878). 

"The verses of Bryant come as assuredly from the 'well of 
English undefined' as the finer compositions of Wordsworth." — 
London Review. 

William Cullen Bryant was born at Cummington, 
Mass., in 1794. He was a precocious child, who wrote 



330 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

verses when he was but nine years of age, and in his 
fifteenth year published a volume of them in Boston. The 
genius of the young poet was wisely directed by his 
father, and he laid up a rich store of classical learning 
while at Williams College. He studied law and practiced 
for ten years with more than ordinary success. 

During his professional studies he did not neglect his 
poetical talent. When not yet nineteen years old he wrote 
"Thanatopsis," a short poem of eighty blank verses, but 
had he written nothing more, this would have embalmed 
his memory. Bryant abandoned the taw in 1825 and 
edited successively the New York Review, the United 
States Review, and Literary Gazette. In 1826 he became 
connected with the Evening Post, a daily paper, and man- 
aged it until his death. His prose writings, which he sent 
to The Post in his visits to the Old World, are charac- 
terized by neatness, simplicity and purity of style. In one 
series of communications to his paper he seemed to. 
delight in disparaging the Catholic Church. Apart from 
his hostility to our faith, he raises the thoughts of his 
readers to higher literary standards. 

In the finish and repose of his writings Bryant is almost 
unequaled among American writers. He has rendered 
substantial services to American prose by refusing to 
countenance some national offenses against rhetoric — 
notably those of slang and exaggeration. His clear and 
exact English is the more to be appreciated when we com- 
pare it with the work of other editors. 

TO A WATERFOWL. 

Whither, 'midst falling dew, 
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 

Thy solitary way? 




WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 



NATIONAL PERIOD 333 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean side? 

There is a Power, whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, 
The desert and illimitable air, 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend 

Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. 

SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 
Our band is few, but true and tried, 

Our leader frank and bold; 
The British soldier trembles 

When Marion's name is told. 
Our fortress is the good greenwood, 

Our tent the cypress-tree; 



334 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

We know the forest round us, 

As seamen know the sea. 
We know its walls of thorny vines, 

Its glades of reedy grass, 
Its safe and silent islands 

Within the dark morass. 

Woe to the English soldiery, 

That little dread us near! 
On them shall light at midnight 

A strange and sudden fear; 
When, waking to their tents on fire, 

They grasp their arms in vain, 
And they who stand to face us 

Are beat to earth again; 
And they who fly in terror deem 

A mighty host behind, 
And hear the tramp of thousands 

Upon the hollow wind. 

Then sweet the hour that brings release 

From danger and from toil: 
We talk the battle over, 

And share the battle's spoil. 
The woodland rings with laugh and shout 

As if a hunt were up, 
And woodland flowers are gathered 

To crown the soldier's cup. 
With merry songs we mock the wind 

That in the pine-top grieves, 
And slumber long and sweetly 

On beds of oaken leaves. 

W T ell knows the fair and friendly moon 

The band that Marion leads — 
The glitter of their rifles, 

The scampering of their steeds. 
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb 

Across the moonlight plain; 
'Tis life to feel the night-wind 

That lifts his tossing mane. 



NATIONAL PERIOD. 335 

A moment in the British camp — 

A moment — and away, 
Back to the pathless forest, 

Before the peep of day. 

Grave men there are by broad Santee, 

Grave men with hoary hairs; 
Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 
And lovely ladies greet our band 

With kindliest welcoming, 
With smiles like those of summer, 

And tears like those of spring. 
For them we wear these trusty arms, 

And lay them down no more 
Till we have driven the Briton, 

Forever, from our shore. 

Oliver Wendell Hoimes (1809=1894). 

"Holmes, the most cultivated wit, if not the chief humorist, 
America has ever produced." — Westminster Review. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes was born in Cambridge, Mass., 
in 1809. After his graduation at Harvard he studied law 
for one year, but afterwards adopted medicine as a pro- 
fession and went to Europe to study in Paris. After an 
absence of three years he returned to America and took 
his degree at Cambridge. For more than one-third of a 
century he filled the position of Professor of Anatomy 
at Harvard, devoting his leisure to literature. 

"The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," his most popu- 
lar work, was written in 1857 for the opening numbers 
of the Atlantic Monthly. "The Professor at the Breakfast 
Table" was followed by "The Poet," and still the interest 
in the series was undiminished. The wit, satire and senti- 
ment of these papers gained for them immediate popu- 
larity. "Elsie Venner", and "The Guardian Angel" are 
characteristic novels. His lyrics, such as "Union and 



336 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Liberty," "Old Ironsides," and "Welcome to the Nations," 
are among the most spirited in the language, and his 
humorous poems, "The One-Hoss Shay," "My Aunt" 
and others, have an irresistible drollery combined with 
a tender and kindly feeling. His poems written for class 
reunions and other occasions are among his happiest 
efforts. 

In both his prose and verse he exhibits a strange blend- 
ing of the humorous, witty and sentimental, an accurate, 
though scarcely a profound, knowledge of character, a 
perfect command of words, and a most genial vigor of 
expression. Among his poems it is almost impossible to 
make a choice — they are so much alike and so equally 
good. 

FROM THE AUTOCRAT AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 
I would have a woman as true as Death. At the first real 
lie which works from the heart outward, she should be ten- 
derly chloroformed into a better world, where she can have an 
angel for a governess, and feed on strange fruits which will 
make her all over again, even to her bones and marrow. 
Proud she may be in the sense of respecting herself; but 
pride, in the sense of contemning others less gifted than her- 
self, deserves the two lowest circles of a vulgar woman's 
Inferno, where the punishments are Small-pox and Bank- 
ruptcy. She who nips off the end of a brittle courtesy, as one 
breaks the tip of an icicle, to bestow upon those whom she 
ought cordially and kindly to recognize, proclaims the fact 
that she comes not merely of low blood, but of bad blood. 
Consciousness of unquestioned position makes people gracious 
in a proper measure to all; but, if a woman puts on airs 
with her real equals, she has something about herself or her 
family she is ashamed of, or ought to be. Better too few 
words from the woman we love, than too many; while she 
is silent, Nature is working for her; while she talks, she is 
working for herself. Love is sparingly soluble in the words 
of men; therefore they speak much of it; but one syllable 




O. W. HOLMES. 



NATIONAL PERIOD. 339 

of woman's speech can dissolve more of it than a man's heart 
can hold. 

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

Sails the unshadowed main — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl! 

And every chambered cell, 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped its growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed. 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil; 

Still as the spiral grew, 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 

Built up its idle door, 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 

Child of the wandering sea, 

Cast from her lap, forlorn! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn; 

While on my ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought, I hear a voice that sings: 

"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 



340 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!" 

Edgar Allan Poe (1809=1849). Edgar Allan Poe was 
born in Boston, Mass., in 1809. After the death 
of his parents he was adopted by a wealthy merchant 
of Richmond, Va., who gave him excellent opportunities 
of culture. He attended the University of Vir- 
ginia and afterward entered the Academy at West Point, 
where, incapable of enduring military restraints, he de- 
liberately effected his expulsion. He led a wild and dis- 
sipated life, alienating his benefactor and bringing 
wretchedness upon himself. One of the sad defects of 
his nature was susceptibility to the influence of liquor; 
this, with his passion for gambling, his morbid sensitive- 
ness, and his melancholy, led him to waste his genius and 
throw away his life. 

His literary record is one of suffering and discourage- 
ment, yet no other American writer has won so enduring 
a fame. His writings are full of mysticism and display 
an intricate machinery of words with a surfeit of sweet 
sounds. Of his poems, "The Raven" and "The Bells" 
are the most remarkable, the first for its rhythmical beauty 
and unearthly sadness, the second for its perfect adapta- 
tion of sound to sense. Among his tales, "The Fall of 
the House of Usher," "The Gold Bug," "The Black Cat," 
"The Murders in the Rue Morgue" and "The Purloined 
Letter" are best, but in all his writings there is nothing 
exalted or morally invigorating. 

As a critic, Poe's standard of excellence was high, but 
to him Art was not a means to elevate the soul to the 
Eternal Beauty, it was a something existing for its own 
sake. As a consequence the moral element was utterly 




EDGAR ALLEN POE. 



NATIONAL PERIOD. 343 

excluded from it. The religion of Poe might be described 
as a sort of pantheism. This gifted poet died in Baltimore 
in 1849, from the effects of intemperance and exposure. 

ULALUME. 
The skies they were ashen and sober; 

The leaves they were crisped and sere — 

The leaves they were withering and sere; 
It was night in the lonesome October 1 

Of my most immemorial year; 
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 

In the misty mid-region of Weir — 
It was down by the dark tarn of Auber, 

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 

Here once, through an alley Titanic, 

Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul — 

Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 
These were days when my heart was volcanic 

As the scoriae rivers that roll — 

As the lavas that restlessly roll 
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek 

In the ultimate climes of the pole — 
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek 

In the realms of the boreal pole. 

Our talk had been serious and sober, 
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere — 
Our memories were treacherous and sere — 

For we knew not the month was October, 
And we marked not the night of the year — 
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!) — 

We noted not the dim lake of Auber — 

(Though once we had journeyed down here) — 

Remember not the dark tarn of Auber, 
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 

And now, as the night was senescent 
And star-dials pointed to morn — 
As the star-dials hinted of morn — 



344 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

At the end of our path a liquescent 
And nebulous lustre was born, 

Out of which a miraculous crescent 
Arose with a duplicate horn — 

Astarte's bediamonded crescent 
Distinct with its duplicate horn. 

And I said — "She is warmer than Dian: 

She rolls through an ether of sighs — 

She revels in a region of sighs: 
She has seen that the tears are not dry on 

These cheeks, where the worm never dies, 
And has come past the stars of the Lion 

To point us the path to the skies — 

To the Lethean peace of the skies — 
Come up in despite of the Lion, 

To shine on us with her bright eyes- 
Come up through the lair of the Lion, 

With love in her luminous eyes." 

But Psyche, uplifting her finger, 
Said — "Sadly this star I mistrust— 

Oh, hasten!— oh, let us not linger! 
Her pallor I strangely mistrust: — 
Oh, fly! — let us fly! — for we must." 

In terror she spoke, letting sink her 
Wings till they trailed in the dust — 

In agony sobbed, letting sink her 
Plumes till they trailed in the dust— - 
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 

I replied — "This is nothing but dreaming: 
Let us on by this tremulous light! 
Let us bathe in this crystalline light! 

Its Sybilic splendor is beaming 
With Hope and in Beauty to-night: — 
See!— it flickers up the sky through the night! 

Ah! we safely may trust to its gleaming 
And be sure it will lead us aright — 



NATIONAL PERIOD. 345 

We safely may trust to a gleaming 
That cannot but guide us aright, 
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night." 

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, 

And tempted her out of her gloom — 

And conquered her scruples and gloom; 
And we passed to the end of the vista, 

But were stopped by the door of a tomb — 

By the door of a legended tomb; 
And-I said — "What is written, sweet sister, 

On the door of this legended tomb?" 

She replied — "Ulalume— Ulalume — 

'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!" 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober — 
As the leaves that were crisped and sere — 
As the leaves that were withering and sere — 

And I cried — "It was surely October 
On this very night of last year 
That I journeyed — I journeyed down here — 
That I brought a dread burden down here, 
On this night of all nights in the year, 
Ah, what demon has tempted me here? 

Well I know, now, this dark tarn of Auber, 
This misty mid-region of Weir — 

Well I know, now, this dark tarn of Auber, 
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 

Fitz Greene Halleck (1795=1867), was one of Amer- 
ica's best poets. He was born in Connecticut, but the 
greater part of his life was spent in New York, where a 
statue in Central Park is now erected in his honor. He 
was for many years confidential adviser of John Jacob 
Astor. Halleck's poems are few, but are of great excel- 
lence. His principal poem, "Marco Bozzaris," is one of 
the finest heroic odes in the language, and his "Lines on 
the Death of Drake" are unsurpassed for tender beauty. 



346 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

MARCO BOZZARIS. 
At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk lay dreaming of the hour, 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 

Should tremble at his power: 
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
The trophies of a conqueror; 

In dreams, his song of triumph heard; 
Then wore his monarch's signet ring; 
Then pressed that monarch's throne, a king; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 

As Eden's garden-bird. 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranked his Suliote band, 
True as the steel of their tried blades, 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There, had the Persian's thousands stood; 
There, had the glad earth drunk their blood, 

In old Plataea's day: 
And now, they breathed that haunted air, 
The sons of sires who conquered there, 
With arms to strike, and souls to dare, 

As quick, as far, as they. 

An hour passed on; the Turk awoke; 

That bright dream was his last; 
He woke, to hear his sentries shriek, 

"To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" 
He woke, to die mid flame and smoke, 
And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, 

And death-shots falling thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain-cloud; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 

Bozzaris cheer his band: 
"Strike! till the last armed foe expires; 
Strike! for your altars and your fires; 
Strike! for the green graves of your sires; 

God, and your native land!" 



NATIONAL PERIOD. §47 

They fought like brave men, long and well; 

They piled the ground with Moslem slain; 
They conquered, but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 
His smile, when rang their proud hurra, 

And the red field was won; 
They saw in death his eye-lids close 
Calmly, as to a night's repose, 

Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal-chamber, Death; 

Come to the mother, when she feels, 
For the first time, her first-born's breath; 

Come when the blessed seals 
Which close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke; 
Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake's shock, the ocean storm; 
Come when the heart beats high and warm, 

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine; 
And thou art terrible; the tear, 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 

Of agony, are thine. 
But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free, 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, 
And in its hollow tones are heard 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 

* * * * * 

Bozzaris! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's prime, 
Rest thee; there is no prouder grave, 

Even in her own proud clime. 

We tell thy doom without a sigh, 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, 
One of the few, the immortal names, 

That were not born to die. 



348 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Joseph Rodman Drake (1795=1820) was the author 
of two celebrated poems, "The American Flag" and "The 
Culprit Fay." He was a young poet of brilliant promise, 
who died at the early age of twenty-five years. 

THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

When Freedom from her mountain height 

Unfurled her standard to the air, 
She tore the azure robe of night, 

And set the stars of glory there; 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies, 
And striped its pure, celestial white 
With streakings of the morning light; 
Then from his mansion in the sun 
She called her eagle-bearer down, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land. 

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, 
The sign of hope and triumph high! 
When speaks the signal trumpet tone, 
And the long line comes gleaming on; 
(Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, 
Has dimmed the glistening bayonet), 
Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
To where thy sky-born glories burn, 
And as his springing steps advance 
Catch war and vengeance from thy glance. 
And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
And gory sabers rise and fall, 
Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 
Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 

And cowering foes shall sink beneath 
Each gallant arm that strikes below 

That lovely messenger of death. 



NATIONAL PERIOD. 349 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home! 

By angel hands to valor given, 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
Forever float that standard sheet! 

Where breathes the foe, but falls before us, 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! 

Sidney Lanier (1842=1881) was a writer of tender, 
graceful and heroic verse; his cantata, "From the Hun- 
dred-Terraced Height," sung at the opening of the Cen- 
tennial Exposition, claimed universal attention. His 
prose works are exquisitely finished, the principal among 
them being "Science of English Verse," "Tiger-Lilies, a 
Novel," "Centennial Ode," and "The English Novel and 
Its Development." 

BALLAD OF TREES AND THE MASTER. 

Into the woods my Master went, 

Clean forsprent, forsprent. 

Into the woods my Master came, 

Forsprent with love and shame. 

But the olives they were not blind to Him; 

The little gray leaves were kind to Him; 

The thorn-tree had a mind to Him 

When into the woods He came. 



Out of the woods my Master went, 

And He was well content. 

Out of the woods my Master came 

Content with Death and Shame. 

When Death and Shame would woo Him last, 

From under the trees they drew Him last. 

'Twas on a tree they slew Him — last 

When out of the woods He came. 



350 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Henry Timrod (1831=1867) wrote martial lyrics as 
terse and vehement as a Greek war-cry; but in his idyllic 
poems, such as "Spring in Carolina/' and "Katie," his 
poetic genius appears in its finest form. His poems are 
tinged with sadness, but his melancholy is never like 
Byron's blackness, nor like Poe's polar night; it is rather, 
in his own words, — 

A shadowy land where Joy and Sorrow kiss, 
Each still to each corrective and relief; 

Where dim delights are brightened into bliss, 
And nothing wholly perishes but grief. 

Ah me! not dies no more than spirit dies; 

But in a change like death is clothed with wings. 
A serious angel with entranced eyes, 

Looking to far-off and celestial things. 

George Henry Miles (1824=1871) a contributor to 
many reviews and magazines, was remarkable for his 
Catholic spirit, and for the classical beauty of his lan- 
guage. His tragedy of "Mohammed, the Arabian Proph- 
et," obtained a prize of one thousand dollars against a 
hundred competitors. He is one of the loftiest and best 
of American Catholic poets. 

BLIGHT AND BLOOM. 

Did we not bury them? 
All those dead years of ours, 
All those poor tears of ours, 
All those pale pleading lowers — 

Did we not bury them? 

Yet in the gloom there, 
See how they stare at us, 
Hurling despair at us, 
Rising to glare at us, 

Out of the tomb there! 



NATIONAL PERIOD. 351 

Curse every one of them! 
Kiss, clasp, and token, 
Vows vainly spoken, 
Hearts bruised and broken — 

Have we not done with them? 

Are we such slaves to them? — 
Down where the river leaps, 
Down where the willow weeps, 
Down where the lily sleeps, 

Dig deeper graves for them. 

Musf we still stir amid 
Ghosts of our buried youth, 
Gleams of life's morning truth, 
Spices and myrrh, forsooth . ? 

Seal up the pyramid! 

Be still, my heart, beneath the rod, 

And murmur not; 
He, too, was Man — the Son of God — 

And shared thy lot. 

Shared all that we can suffer here, 

The gain, the loss, 
The bloody sweat, the scourge, the sneer, 

The Crown, the Cross, 

The final terror of the Tomb — 

His guiltless head 
Self-dedicated to the doom 

We merited. 

Then sigh not for earth's Edens lost, 

Time's vanished bliss; 
The heart that suffers most, the most 

Resembles His. 

Reverend Abram J. Ryan (1840=1886), the "poet-priest," 
has written many beautiful poems, unequal in merit, 
but full of subtle harmonies and strange sweetness. 
They mirror the fervid feelings of the Southerner, and 



352 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

the pious aspirations of the priest. The most popular are 
"The Conquered Banner," "Erin's Flag," "The Sword 
of Robert Lee" and "The Song of the Mystic." 

John Godfrey Saxe (1816=1886) was one of the best 
of our humorous poets, quick to see the ludicrous side 
of things, and felicitous in the use of puns and other 
oddities of speech. He wrote "The Proud Miss McBride," 
"The Briefless Barrister," "The Flying Dutchman" and 
"The Masquerade." 

Richard Henry Dana (1787=1879) was distinguished 
as a poet and essayist. Among his best poems 
are "The Buccaneer," a philosophical tale in verse, said 
to be the most powerful of American compositions, and 
"The Dying Raven." His Lectures on Shakespeare were 
deservedly popular. 

Nathanael P. Willis (1806=1867) published twenty- 
seven volumes of poetry and prose. Of his poetry "The 
Death of Absalom," "Plagar in the Wilderness," and other 
scriptural poems are the best. Among the best of his 
prose works are "Letters from Under a Bridge," "People 
I Have Met," "Life Here and There" and "Farnous Per- 
sons and Places." 

Alice Cary (1820=1871) and Phebe Cary (1824=1871) are 
the best female poets that America has produced. 
Their poems are thoughtful, graceful and full of religious 
feeling. "Pictures from Memory," "Order for a Picture," 
"The Bridal Veil," "The Poet to the Painter" and "Field 
Preaching" are some of their best poems. 

John Howard Payne (1792=1852) won enduring fame 
by a lyric which contains only twelve lines, but is as 
widely spread as the' English-speaking world — the song 




CAREY SISTERS. 



23 



NATIONAL PERIOD. 355 

"Home, Sweet Home." He also wrote several plays, the 
principal of which are "Brutus," "Virginius" and "Charles 
II." 

Francis Scott Key (1779=1843) won a permanent place 
in literature by a single composition, "The Star- 
Spangled Banner." This was written during his short 
imprisonment by the British during the war of 1812. 

John Hopkinson (1770=1842), son of the celebrated 
Judge Francis Hopkinson, wrote the patriotic song "Hail 
Columbia." 



CHAPTER VIII.— (Continued.) 

PROSE WRITERS. 

Daniel Webster, one of the greatest orators and 
statesmen that this country ever produced, was born in 
Salisbury, New Hampshire, on the 18th of January, 1782. 
His father, Ebenezer Webster, was a distinguished soldier 
and officer in the Revolutionary War. After the war, he 
moved with his family into what was then the savage wilds 
of New Hampshire. In a humble house built in the woods 
on the outskirts of civilization, Daniel Webster was born. 
During his childhood, he was sickly and delicate, and gave 
no promise of the robust and vigorous frame which he 
had in his manhood. It may well be supposed that his 
early opportunities for education were very scanty. In 
those days books were scarce and he eagerly read every 
book he could find. In his Autobiography he says: "I 
remember that my father brought home from some of the 
lower towns Pope's Essay on Man, published in a sort of 
pamphlet. I took it, and very soon I could repeat it from 
beginning to end. We had so few books that to read 
them once or twice was nothing. We thought they were 
all to be got by heart." 

At the age of fourteen, he was sent to Phillips Academy, 
in Exeter, New Hampshire, but remained only nine 
months on account of the poverty of the family. Upon 
leaving college, he immediately commenced his legal 
studies, and was admitted to the Suffolk bar in 1805. 



PROSE WRITERS. 357 

He was elected to Congress in 1813, and at once took his 
place among the solid and eloquent men of the House. 
He served as United States Representative nine years 
in all, as Senator eighteen years, and he was three times 
Secretary of State. In 1852, he retired from public life, 
and died in his home by the seaside at Marshfield, Massa- 
chusetts, October 25th of the same year. 

Daniel Webster is universally acknowledged to be the 
foremost of constitutional lawyers, and of parliamentary 
debaters, and is without a peer in the highest realms of 
classic and patriotic oratory. Physically, Webster was a 
magnificent specimen of manhood. Wherever he went 
men turned to gaze at him. His face was striking both 
in form and color. The eyebrow, the eye, and the dark 
and deep socket in which it glowed, were full of power. 
His smile was beaming and fascinating, lighting up his 
whole face like a sudden sunrise. His voice was rich, 
deep and strong, filling the largest space without effort, 
and when under excitement, rising and swelling into a 
violence of sound, like the roar of a tempest. His oratory 
was in perfect keeping with the man, gracious, logical and 
majestic. He was by nature free, generous and lavish 
in his manner of living; as a result his private finances 
were often much embarrassed. 

His literary works consist of speeches, forensic argu- 
ments and diplomatic papers. Of his orations, three, 
the "Bunker Hill Monument Discourses," the "Plymouth 
Rock Discourse" and the "Eulogy on Adams and Jeffer- 
son," have been declared "the very choicest masterpieces 
of all ages and all tongues." 

PROM THE FIRST BUNKER HILL DISCOURSE. 

This uncounted multitude before me and around me proves 
the feeling which the occasion has excited. These thousands 



358 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

of human faces, glowing with sympathy and joy, and from 
the impulses of a common gratitude turned reverently to heav- 
en in this spacious temple of the firmament, proclaim that 
the day, the place, and the purpose of our assembling have 
made a deep impression on our hearts. 

If, indeed, there be anything in local association fit to 
affect the mind of man, we need not strive to repress the 
emotions which agitate us here. We are among the sepulchres 
of our fathers. We are on ground, distinguished by their 
valor, their constancy, and the shedding of their blood. We 
are here, not to fix an uncertain date in our annals, nor draw 
into notice an obscure and unknown spot. If our humble 
purpose had never been conceived, if we ourselves had never 
been born, the 17th of June, 1775, would have been a day on 
which all subsequent history would have poured its light, and 
the eminence where we stand, a point of attraction to the 
eyes of successive generations. But we are Americans. We 
live in what may be called the early age of this great Con- 
tinent; and we know that our posterity, through all time, are 
here to enjoy and suffer the allotments of humanity. We see 
before us a probable train of great 'events; we know that our 
own fortunes have been happily cast; and it is natural, there- 
fore, that we should be moved by the contemplation of occur- 
rences which have guided our destiny before many of us were 
born, and settled the condition in which we should pass that 
portion of our existence which God allows to men on earth. 

But the great event in the history of the Continent, which 
we are now met here to commemorate, that prodigy of 
modern times, at once the wonder and the blessing of the world, 
is the American Revolution. In a day of extraordinary pros- 
perity and happiness, of high national honor, distinction, and 
power, we are brought together, in this place, by our love of 
country, by our admiration of exalted character, by our grati- 
tude for signal services and patriotic devotion. 

We know, indeed, that the record of illustrious actions is 
most safely deposited in the universal remembrance of man- 
kind. We know, that if we could cause this structure to 
ascend, not only till it reached the skies, but till it pierced 
them, its broad surface could still contain but part of that 
which, in an age of knowledge, hath already been spread over 



PROSE WRITERS. 359 

the earth, and which history charges itself with making 
known to all future times. We know that no inscription on 
entablatures less broad than the earth itself can carry informa- 
tion of the events we commemorate where it has not already 
gone; and that no structure, which shall not outlive the 
duration of letters and knowledge among men, can prolong the 
memorial. But our object is, by this edifice, to show our own 
deep sense of the value and importance of the achievements 
of our ancestors; and, by presenting this work oL gratitude to 
the eye, to keep alive similar sentiments, and to foster a 
constant regard for the principles of the Revolution. Human 
beings are composed, not of reason only, but of imagination 
also, and sentiment; and that is neither wasted nor misapplied 
which is appropriated to the purpose of giving right direction 
to sentiments and opening proper springs of feeling in the heart. 
Let it not be supposed that our object is to perpetuate na- 
tional hostility, or even to cherish a mere military spirit. It 
is higher, purer, nobler. We consecrate our work to the spirit 
of national independence, and we wish that the light of peace 
may rest on it forever. We rear a memorial of our conviction 
of that unmeasured benefit which has been conferred on our 
own land, and of the happy influences which have been pro- 
duced, by the same events, on the general interests of man- 
kind. We come, as Americans, to mark a spot which must 
forever be dear to us and our posterity. We wish that who- 
soever, in all coming time, shall turn his eye thither, may 
behold that the place is not undistinguished where the 
first great battle of the Revolution was fought. We wish 
that this structure may proclaim the magnitude and impor- 
tance of that event to every class and every age. We wish 
that infancy may learn the purpose of its erection from ma- 
ternal lips, and that weary and withered age may behold it, 
and be solaced by the recollections which it suggests. We 
wish that labor may look up here, and be proud, in the midst 
of its toil. We wish that, in those days of disaster, which, as 
they come upon all nations, must be expected to come upon 
us also, desponding patriotism may turn its eyes hitherward, 
and be assured that the foundations of our national power 
are still strong. We wish that this column, rising towards 
heaven among the pointed spires of so many temples dedicated 



I 



360 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

to God, may contribute also to produce, in all minds, a pious 
feeling of dependence and gratitude. We wish, finally, that 
the last object to the sight of him who leaves his native shore, 
and the first to gladden him who revisits it, may be some- 
thing which shall remind him of the liberty and glory of his 
country. , Let it rise! let it rise, till it meet the sun in his 
coming; let the earliest light of the morning gild it, and part- 
ing day linger and play on its summit. 

Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804=1864). 

"As a master of style, Hawthorne is inimitable. No one ever 
wrote purer English or used words more delicately and power- 
fully."— Hart. 

This greatest of American novelists was born in Salem, 
Massachusetts, in 1804, and graduated at Bowdoin in 
1825 in the class with Longfellow. His life after leaving 
college was one of seclusion, varied by little communica- 
tion with anyone but his immediate circle of friends. 

His first publication was "Twice Told Tales." This 
received hearty praise from Longfellow, but it was not 
cordially welcomed by the public. At this time sociolog- 
ical theories were being tested at Brook Farm; Haw- 
thorne took an active part in the enterprise, but his lack 
of sympathy with its principles was shown in "The Blithe- 
dale Romance." During his residence in the "Old Manse" 
at Concord, "Mosses from an Old Manse" appeared; 
this was a collection of papers republished from various 
magazines. In 1846 he was appointed surveyor of the 
port of Salem. A graphic picture of the custom-house 
and its inmates served as an introduction to "The Scarlet 
Letter," his masterpiece. In keen and subtle analysis, in 
patient, almost insensible development of plot, as well as 
in beauty of description, and purity and elegance of dic- 
tion, it stands alone in American fiction, unapproached 
except by other works of the same great master. 




NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 



PROSE WRITERS. 363 

Hawthorne also wrote "The Marble Faun," "The 
House of the Seven Gables," "Snow Image" and several 
volumes for young people. His special characteristics are 
his power of analyzing and developing the weird and mys- 
terious and of breathing a living soul into everything that 
he touched with the magic wand of his genius. Unfor- 
tunately there runs through his writings a deep vein of 
melancholy, amounting almost to hopelessness. 

FROM THE SCARLET LETTER. 

All this while, Hester had been looking steadily at the old 
man, and was shocked, as well as wonder-smitten, to discern 
what a change had been wrought upon him within the past 
seven years. It was not so much that he had grown older; 
for though the traces of advancing life were visible, he bore 
his age well, and seemed to retain a wiry vigor and alertness. 
But the former aspect of an intellectual and studious man, 
calm and quiet, which was what she had best remembered in 
him, had altogether vanished, and been succeeded by an eager, 
searching, almost fierce, yet carefully guarded look. It seemed 
to be his wish and purpose to mask this expression with a 
smile; but the latter played him false, and nickered over his 
visage so derisively, that the spectator could see his blackness 
all the better for it. Ever and anon, too, there came a glare of 
red light out of his eyes; as if the old man's soul were on fire, 
and kept on smoldering duskily within his breast, until, by 
some casual puff of passion, it was blown into a momentary 
flame. This he repressed as speedily as possible, and strove 
to look as if nothing of the kind had happened. 

In a word, old Roger Chillingworth was a striking evidence 
of man's faculty of transforming himself into a devil, if he 
will only, for a reasonable space of time, undertake a devil's 
office. This unhappy person had effected such a transforma- 
tion, by devoting himself, for seven years, to the constant 
analysis of a heart full of torture, and deriving his enjoyment 
thence, and adding fuel to those fiery tortures which he ana- 
lyzed and gloated over. * 
The scarlet letter burned on Hester Prynne's bosom. Here 



364 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

was another ruin, the responsibility of which came partly 
home to her. 

"What see you in my face," asked the physician, "that you 
look at it so earnestly?" 

"Something that would make me weep, if there were any 
tears bitter enough for it," answered she. "But let it pass! 
It is of yonder miserable man that I would speak." 

"And what of him?" cried Roger Chillingworth, eagerly, as 
if he loved the topic, and were glad of an opportunity to dis- 
cuss it with the only person of whom he could make a confi- 
dant. "Not to hide the truth, Mistress Hester, my thoughts 
happen just now to be busy with the gentleman. So speak 
freely; and I will make answer." * 

"When we last spake together," said Hester, "now seven 
years ago, it was your pleasure to extort a promise of secrecy 
as touching the former relation between yourself and me. As 
the life and good fame of yonder man were in your hands, 
there seemed no choice to me save to be silent, in accordance 
with your behest. Yet it was not without heavy misgivings 
that I thus bound myself; for, having cast off all duty towards 
other human beings, there remained a duty towards him; and 
something whispered me that I was betraying it, in pledging 
myself to keep our counsel. Since that day, no man is so 
near to him as you. You tread behind his every footstep. You 
are beside him, sleeping and waking. You search his thoughts. 
You burrow and rankle in his heart! Your clutch is on his 
life, and you cause him to die daily a living death; and still 
he knows you not. In permitting this, I have surely acted a 
false part by the only man to whom the power was left me 
to be true!" 

"What choice had you?" asked Roger Chillingworth. "My 
finger, pointed at this man, would have hurled him into a 
dungeon, — thence, peradventure, to the gallows!" 

"It had been better so!" said Hester Prynne. 

"Yea, woman, thou sayest truly!" cried old Roger Chilling- 
worth, letting the lurid fire of his heart blaze out before her 
eyes. "Better had he died at once! Never did mortal suffer 
what this man has suffered. And all, all, in the sight of his 
worst enemy. He has been conscious of me. He has felt 
an influence dwelling always upon him like a curse. He knew 



PROSE WRITERS. 365 

that no friendly hand was pulling at his heartstrings, and 
that an eye was looking curiously into him, which sought 
only evil, and found it. But he knew not that the eye and 
hand were mine. With the superstition common to his brother- 
hood, he fancied himself given over to a fiend, to be tortured 
with frightful dreams, and desperate thoughts, the sting of 
remorse, and despair of pardon; as a foretaste of what awaits 
him beyond the grave. But it was the constant shadow of 
my presence! — the closest propinquity of the man whom he 
had most vilely wronged! — and who had grown to exist only by 
this perpetual poison of the direst revenge! Yea, indeed! — 
he did not err! — there was a fiend at his elbow! A mortal 
man, with once a human heart, has become a fiend for his 
especial torment!" 

The unfortunate physician, while uttering these words, 
lifted his hands with a look of horror, as if he had beheld some 
frightful shape, which he could not recognize, usurping the 
place of his own image in a glass. It was one of those mo- 
ments — which sometimes occur only at the interval of years — 
when a man's moral aspect is faithfully revealed to his mind's 
eye. Not improbably, he had never before viewed himself 
as he did now. 

"Hast thou not tortured him enough?" said Hester, noticing 
the old man's look. "Has he not paid thee all?" 

"No! — no! — He has but increased the debt!" answered the 
physician; and as he proceeded, his manner lost its fiercer 
characteristics, and subsided into gloom. "Dost thou remem- 
ber me, Hester, as I was nine years agone? Even then, I was 
in the autumn of my days, nor was it the early autumn. But 
all my life had been made up of earnest, studious, thoughtful, 
quiet years, bestowed faithfully for the increase of mine own 
knowledge, and faithfully, too, though this latter object was 
but casual to the other, — faithfully for the advancement of 
human welfare. No life had been more peaceful and innocent 
than mine; few lives so rich with benefits conferred. Dost 
thou remember me? Was I not, though you might deem me 
cold, nevertheless a man thoughtful for others, craving little 
for himself, — kind, true, just, and of constant, if not warm, 
affections? Was I not all this?" 

"All this, and more," said Hester. 



366 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

"And what am J now?" demanded he, looking her into the 
face, and permitting the whole evil within him to be written 
on his features. "I have already told thee what I am! A fiend! 
Who made me so?" 

"It was myself!" cried Hester, shuddering. "It was I, not 
less than he. Why hast thou not avenged thyself on me?" 

"I have left thee to the scarlet letter," replied Roger Chil- 
lingworth. "If that have not avenged thee, I can do no more!" 

He laid his finger on it, with a smile. 

"It has avenged thee!" answered Hester Prynne. 

"I judged no less," said the physician. "And now, what 
wouldst thou with me touching this man?" 

"I must reveal the secret," answered Hester, firmly. "He 
must discern thee in thy true character. What may be the 
result, I know not. But this long debt of confidence, due from 
me to him, whose bane and ruin I have been, shall at length 
be paid. So far as concerns the overthrow or preservation of 
his fair fame and his earthly state, and perchance his life, he 
is in thy hands. Nor do I, — whom the scarlet letter has dis- 
ciplined to truth, though it be the truth of red-hot iron, 
entering into the soul, — nor do I perceive such advantage in 
his living any longer a life of ghastly emptiness, that I shall 
stoop to implore thy mercy. Do with him as thou wilt! There 
is no good for him, — no good for me, — no good for thee! There 
is no good for little Pearl! There is no path to guide us out 6i 
this dismal maze!" 

"Woman, I could well-nigh pity thee!" said Roger Chilling- 
worth, unable to restrain a thrill of admiration too; for there 
was a quality almost majestic in the despair which she ex- 
pressed. Thou hadst great elements. Peradventure, hadst 
thou met earlier with a better love than mine, this evil had 
not been. I pity thee, for the good that has been wasted in 
thy nature!" 

"And I thee," answered Hester, "for the hatred that has 
transformed a wise and just man to a fiend! Wilt thou yet 
purge it out of thee, and be once more human? If not for 
his sake, then, doubly for thine own! Forgive, and leave his 
further retribution to the Power that claims it! I said, but 
now, that there could be no good event for him, or thee, or 
me, who are here wandering together in this gloomy maze 



PROSE WRITERS. 367 

of evil, and stumbling, at every step, over the guilt wherewith 
we have strewn our path. It is not so! There might be good 
for thee, and thee alone, since thou hast been deeply wronged, 
and hast it at thy will to pardon. Wilt thou give up that only 
privilege? Wilt thou reject that priceless benefit?" 

"Peace, Hester, peace!" replied the old man, with gloomy 
sternness. "It is not granted me to pardon. I have no such 
power as thou tellest me of. My old faith, long forgotten, 
comes back to me, and explains all that we do, and all that* 
we suffer. By thy first step awry thou didst plant the germ of 
evil; but since that moment, it has all been a dark necessity. 
Ye that have wronged me are not sinful, save in a kind of 
typical illusion; neither am I fiend-like, who have snatched 
a fiend's office from his hands. It is our fate. Let the black 
flower blossom as it may! Now go thy ways, and deal as thou 
wilt with yonder man." 

He waved his hand, and betook himself again to his employ- 
ment of gathering herbs. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803=1882). 

"As Wordsworth's poetry is, in my judgment, the most 
important work done in verse in our language during the cen- 
tury, so Emerson's essays are the most important work done 
in prose." — Matthew Arnold. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson was born in Boston of an old 
Puritan family. He was educated at Harvard and became 
a Unitarian minister in his native city. After three years, 
finding that he could not hold the same belief as his 
congregation, he abandoned the ministry, courageously 
sacrificing his position to his change of convictions. 
Emerson was, on his own admission, a transcendentalist, 
or extreme realist, and pantheist. The peculiar quality 
of his mind has been likened to German mysticism and 
the visions of the Neo-Platonists, while the Hon. Anson 
Burlingame declared that "there are twenty thousand 
Ralph Waldo Emersons in China." 

His principal works are "Essays," "Representative 



368 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Men/' "English Traits/' "Lectures and Addresses" and 
"Poems." His representative men are Plato, the Philoso- 
pher; Swedenborg, the Mystic; Montaigne, the Sceptic; 
Shakespeare, the Poet; Napoleon, the Man of the World, 
and Goethe, the Writer. It is. not as an essayist, poet, or 
philosopher that Emerson will be best remembered; there 
was something in himself that compelled admiration. He 
appears to have been a powerful personality, for he cer- 
tainly influenced many of the finer minds of New Eng- 
land, and no doubt he led a noble and intellectual life. 
His exquisite aestheticism took away the grossness of the 
results to which his materialistic philosophy leads. De- 
spite his bad philosophy and want of revealed religion, 
we discover in his verse and prose an exquisite sense 
of beauty, which renders his works most enticing and 
most dangerous. 

THE RHODORA. 
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, 
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, 
To please the desert and the sluggish brook; 
The purple petals fallen in the pool 

Made the black waters with their beauty gay; 
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, 

And court the flower that cheapens his array. 
Rhodora: if the sages ask thee why 
This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, 
Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, 
Then beauty is its own excuse for being. 
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! 

I never thought to ask, I never knew; 
But in my simple ignorance suppose 
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. 

FROM ESSAY ON COMPENSATION. 
An inevitable dualism bisects nature, so that each thing 
is a half, and suggests another thing to make it whole; as, 




JOHN G. WHITTIER. 



PROSE WRITERS. 371 

spirit, matter; man, woman; odd, even; motion, rest; ob- 
jective, subjective; in, out; upper, under; yea, nay. Whilst 
the whole world is thus dual, so is every one of its parts. Every 
excess causes a defect; every defect, an excess. Every sweet 
hath its sour; every evil its good. Every faculty which is a 
receiver of pleasure has an equal penalty put on its abuse. 
It is to answer for its moderation with its life. For every 
grain of wit, there is a grain of folly. For everything that 
you have missed, you have gained something else; and for 
everything you gain, you lose something. Do men desire the 
more substantial and permanent grandeur of genius? Neither 
has this an immunity. He who by force of will or thought is 
great, and overlooks thousands, has the charges of that emi- 
nence. With every influx of light comes new danger. Has 
he light?— he must bear witness to the light, and always outrun 
the sympathy which gives him such keen satisfaction, by his 
fidelity to new revelations of the incessant soul. He must 
hate father and mother, wife and child. Has he all that the 
world loves and admires and covets? — he must cast behind 
him their admiration and afflict them by faithfulness to his 
truth, and become a byword and a hissing. 

All things are double, one against another, tit for tat; an 
eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth. What v/ill you have? 
quoth God; pray for it and take it. Nothing venture, nothing 
have. Thou shalt be paid exactly for what thou hast done, 
no more, no less. A man cannot speak but he judges himself. 
With his will or against his will, he draws his portrait to the 
eye of his companions by every word. Every opinion reacts 
on him who utters it. It is a thread-ball thrown at a mark, 
but the other end remains in the thrower's bag. You cannot 
do wrong without suffering wrong. "No man had ever a point 
of pride that was not injurious to him" said Burke. The ex- 
clusive in fashionable life does not see that he excludes him- 
self from enjoyment in the attempt to appropriate it. 

All infractions of love and equity in our social relations are 
speedily punished. They are punished by fear. Whilst I 
stand in simple relations to my fellow-man, I have no dis- 
pleasure in meeting him. But as soon as there is any de- 
parture from simplicity and attempt at halfness, or good for 
me that is not for him, my neighbor feels the wrong; he 



372 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

shrinks from me as far as I have shrunk from him; his eyes 
no longer seek mine; there is war between us; there is hate in 
him and fear in me. 

Has a man gained anything who has received a hundred 
favors and rendered none? Has he gained by borrowing 
through indolence or cunning his neighbor's wares, or horses, 
or money? There arises on the deed the instant acknowledg- 
ment of benefit on the one part and of debt on the other; that 
is of superiority and inferiority. The transaction remains 
in the memory of himself and his neighbor; and every new 
transaction alters, according to its nature, their relations to 
each other. He may soon come to see that he had better have 
broken his own bones than to have ridden in his neighbor's 
coach, and that "the highest price he can pay for a thing is 
to ask for it." * * * 

He is great who confers the most benefits. He is base — 
and that is the one base thing in the universe — who receives 
favors and renders none. In the order of nature, we cannot 
render benefits to those from whom we receive them, or only 
seldom. But the benefit we receive must be rendered again, 
line for line, deed for deed, cent for cent, to somebody. 

The good are befriended even by weakness and defect. As 
no man had ever a point of pride that was not injurious to 
him, so no man had ever a defect that was not somewhere 
made useful to him. As no man thoroughly understands a 
truth until he has contended against it, so no man has a 
thorough acquaintance with the hindrances or talents of men, 
until he has suffered from the one, and seen the triumph of 
the other in his own want of the same. Has he a defect of 
temper that unfits him for society? Thereby he is driven to 
entertain himself alone and acquire habits of self-help; and 
thus like the wounded oyster he mends his shell with pearl. 

Washington Irving (1783=1859). 

"Washington Irving! Why, gentlemen, I don't ga upstairs 
to bed two nights out of the seven, without taking Washington 
Irving under my arm."— Charles Dickens. 

Washington Irving, one of the earliest and most popu- 
lar of American writers, was born in New York City 




WASHINGTON IRVING. 



PROSE WRITERS. 375 

in 1783. He received only a common-school education, 
leaving the school-room at sixteen, yet for many years 
afterward he pursued a systematic course of reading. In 
his boyhood days he seemed to have a natural talent for 
writing essays and stories. As he always disliked math- 
ematics, he often wrote compositions for his schoolmates, 
and they in turn worked out hi<s problems for him. He 
studied law for a time, but preferred to employ himself 
in rambling excursions around Manhattan Island, by 
which he became familiar with the beautiful scenery which 
he afterward made famous by his pen. Thus he acquired 
that minute knowledge of various historical locations, 
curious traditions and legends so beautifully made use of 
in his "Sketch Book" and "History of New York." 

In 1814 he served as an aid to Governor Tompkins 
and at the close of the war he went to Europe, where 
he remained for seventeen years. Having lost all his 
property, he devoted himself to literature to earn a living. 
His "Sketch Book" was published in 181 9; his next works 
were "Bracebridge Hall" and "Tales of a Traveller." 
Having been commissioned to make some translations 
from the Spanish, he took up his residence in Madrid. 
To this sojourn in Spain we are indebted for some of his 
most charming works, as "Life of Columbus," "Conquest 
of Granada," "The Alhambra," "Mahomet and His Suc- 
cessors" and "Spanish Papers." He returned to America 
in 1832. During the next ten years were published 
"Astoria," "Adventures of Captain Bonneville" and 
"Wolfert's Roost." In 1842 Irving was appointed minis- 
ter to Spain. His "Life of Goldsmith" was published four 
years later. His last and most carefully written work was 
the "Life of Washington," in five volumes. 

He seems to have been born with a rare sense of liter- 



376 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

ary proportion and form. We wonder how, with his want 
of training, he could have elaborated a style which is dis- 
tinctly his own, and is as copious, felicitous in the choice 
of words, flowing, spontaneous, clear, and as little weari- 
some when read continuously in quantity as any in the 
English tongue. 

Irving's last years were passed at "Sunnyside," his de- 
lightful residence at Irvington, on the Hudson, in the 
wildest of the beautiful scenes which he has immortal- 
ized. 

FROM WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through 
the painted windows in high vaults above me; the lower parts 
of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. 
The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies 
of the kings faded into shadows; the marble figures of the 
monuments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light; 
the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the cold 
breath of the grave; and even the distant footfall of a verger, 
traversing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary 
in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I 
passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing 
with a jarring sound behind me, filled the whole building with 
echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of 
the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were 
already fallen into indistinctness and confusion. Names, in- 
scriptions, trophies, had all become confounded in my recol- 
lection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from off the 
threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepul- 
chers but a treasury of humiliation; a huge pile of reiterated 
homilies on the emptiness of renown, and the certainty of 
oblivion! It is, indeed, the empire of death — his great shadowy 
palace, where he sits in state, mocking at the relics of human 
glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments 
of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a 
name! Time is ever silently turning over his pages; we are 



PROSE WRITERS. • 377 

too much engrossed by the story of the present, to think of 
the characters and anecdotes that gave interest to the past; 
and each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. 
The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our 
recollection; and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor 
of to-morrow. "Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Browne, "find 
their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we 
may be buried in our survivors." History fades into fable; 
fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the inscrip- 
tion molders from the tablet; the statue falls from the pedestal. 
Columns, arches, and pyramids, what are they but heaps of 
sand; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust? 
What is the security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an em- 
balmment? The remains of Alexander the Great have been 
scattered to the winds, and his empty sarcophagus is now the 
mere curiosity of a museum. "The Egyptian mummies, which 
Cambyses, or time, hath spared, avarice now consumeth; Miz- 
raim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." 

What then is to insure this pile which now towers above 
me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums? The time 
must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring so 
loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; when, instead 
of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle 
through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shat- 
tered tower, — when the gairish sunbeam shall break into these 
gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy twine round the fallen 
column, and the foxglove hang its blossoms about the name- 
less urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away; 
his name perishes from record and recollection; his history is 
as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin. 

Orestes A. Brownson (1803=1876).— Orestes A. Brown- 
son, was born at Stockbridge, Vermont, in 1803. 
He was adopted by an aged Puritan couple, who trained 
him according to their rigid ideas of propriety. He says 
of himself that, "debarred from all the sports, plays, and 
amusements of children, he had the manners, the tone, 
and tastes of an old man before he was a boy." At an 
early age he had learned to read, and from his fourteenth 



378 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

year he was obliged to support himself by hard labor. For 
a short time he studied at an academy in Ballston, N. Y., 
but it was principally by his own efforts and his constant 
application to reading, reflecting, and writing that he 
developed his latent genius. 

His interesting story, "The Convert," relates his relig- 
ious wanderings. A Congregationalist, a Presbyterian, 
a Universalist, a Rationalist and a Socialist, he was every- 
thing in turn and satisfied with nothing until he found 
in the Catholic Church the solution of all his doubts — the 
solace of all his troubles. Henceforward all the efforts 
of his pen were devoted to the defense of Catholic prin- 
ciples. Brownson's Quarterly Review was founded nearly 
one year before his conversion ; this Review he supported 
almost single-handed during twenty years. The want of 
a regular course of studies in his youth, the lack of a 
thorough Catholic training, and the necessity of hurrying 
his articles through the press made him liable to hasty 
and crude statements, to inaccuracies and errors, to 
changes and modifications in his views and opinions. His 
faith, however, never faltered, and his conduct in regard 
to the sacraments and practices of the Church was always 
that of a fervent Catholic. 

His principal works are "The American Republic," 
"The Convert," "Charles El wood," "The Spirit Rapper" 
and his "Essays." 

FROM THE AMERICAN REPUBLIC. 

Government being not only that which governs, but that 
which has the right to govern, obedience to it becomes a moral 
duty, not a mere physical necessity. The right to govern and 
the duty to obey are correlatives, and the one cannot exist 
or be conceived without the other. Hence loyalty is not simply 
an amiable sentiment, but a duty, a moral virtue. Treason 




O. A. BROWNSON. 



PROSE WRITERS. 381 

is not merely a difference in political opinion with the govern- 
ing authority, but a crime against the sovereign, and a moral 
wrong; therefore a sin against God, the Founder of the moral 
law. Treason, if committed in other countries, unhappily has 
been more frequently termed by our countrymen patriotism, 
and loaded with honor, than branded as a crime, the greatest 
of crimes, as it is, that human governments have authority to 
punish. The American people have been chary of the word 
loyalty, perhaps because they regard it as the correlative of 
royalty; but loyalty is rather the correlative of law, and is 
in its essence love and devotion to the sovereign authority, 
however constituted or wherever lodged. It is as necessary, 
as much a duty, as much a virtue in republics as in monarchies; 
and nobler examples of the most devoted loyalty are not found 
in the history of the world than were exhibited in the ancient 
Greek and Roman republics, or than have been exhibited by 
both men and women in the young republic of the United 
States. Loyalty is the highest, noblest, and most generous 
of human virtues, and is the human element of that sublime 
love or charity which, the inspired Apostle tells us, is the ful- 
filment of the law. It has in it the principle of devotion, of 
self-sacrifice, and is, of all human virtues, that which renders 
man most God-like. There is nothing gieat, generous, good, 
or heroic, of which a truly loyal people are not capable, and 
nothing mean, base, cruel, brutal, criminal, detestable, not to 
be expected of a really disloyal people. Such a people no gen- 
erous sentiment can move, no love can bind. It mocks at 
duty, scorns virtue, tramples on all rights, and holds no per- 
son, nothing, human or divine, sacred or inviolable. 

John Boyle O'Reilly (1844=1890).— John Boyle O'Reilly 
was born at Dowth Castle, County Meath, Ire- 
land, June 28, 1844. His father, William David O'Reilly, 
was the master of the Netterville Institution and was a 
fine scholar. His mother, Eliza Boyle, was nearly related 
to Colonel John Allen, famous among the Irish rebels of 
'98. Young O'Reilly had from his father a thorough schol- 
astic training, while from his mother he inherited poetic 
genius and a strong passion of patriotism. The circum- 



382 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

stances and surroundings of his boyhood were well cal- 
culated to inspire in him those yearnings for liberty and 
devotion to country which seven centuries have shown 
to be ineradicable in the Irish people. 

He is a representative of much that is peculiarly char- 
acteristic of our own age and time. His life is a romance 
stranger than the wildest dreams of fiction. At the age 
of thirteen he was a student in school at Drogheda, Ire- 
land; at seventeen a stenographer in England; at nine- 
teen a private soldier in the Irish Hussars; at twenty-two 
lying in a dungeon in Dublin, condemned to death for 
treason against Great Britain; at twenty-four a nameless 
convict in a criminal colony in West Australia. 

On November 3, 1869, John Boyle O'Reilly landed in 
the United States penniless. He was only twenty-five 
years of age, of splendid physique, brilliant, and cour- 
ageous. After spending a short time in Philadelphia and 
New York he went to Boston and obtained employment 
on The Pilot. In 1873 he published his first volume of 
poems, ''Songs of the Southern Seas." This was followed 
by ''Songs, Legends and Ballads;" "Moondyne," his 
famous novel; "Statues in the Block and Other Poems;" 
'Tn Bohemia;" "The Ethics of Boxing and Manly Sport;" 
and "Stories and Sketches." 

In July, 1870, Mr. O'Reilly came editor of The Pilot, 
and when that paper was sold he became, in connection 
with Archbishop Williams, part proprietor. He was a 
frequent contributor to the Galaxy, Scribner's, the Atlantic 
Monthly and Harper's Magazine. 

On Sunday morning, August 10, 1890, without prelim- 
inary illness, in the noontide of life, with promise of a 
fruitful career, John Boyle O'Reilly was stricken with 
death. This was caused by an overdose of medicine for 




JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



PROSE WRITERS. 385 

insomnia. As a journalist he would have ranked high in 
any place. His mind was broad, elastic and expansive, 
and he possessed the ability of acutely feeling the pulse 
of his constituency and guiding his conduct accordingly. 
A remarkable fact about him was that his sorrows in 
dungeon and penal settlement, enough to have broken 
the heart and hope of many a really strong man, failed to 
sour or embitter him. These words of his have the true 
poetic insight: 

I Know 

That when God gives us clearest light, 

He does not touch our eyes with love, but sorrow. 

He made even his dreary experiences in Western Aus- 
tralia yield to him some of the sweetest honey of poesy. 
Sorrow made him tender and sympathetic with all whose 
hearts were sad. His pen and voice and purse were always 
at the service of the poor and oppressed. 

FOREVER. 
Those we love truly never die, 
Though year by year the sad memorial wreath, 
*A ring and flowers, types of life and death, 
Are laid upon their graves. 

For death the pure life saves, 
And life all pure is love; and love can reach 
From Heaven to earth, the nobler lessons teach, 

Than those by mortals read. 

Well blest is he who has a dear one dead: 
A friend he has whose face will never change — 
A dear communion that will not grow strange; 

The anchor of love is death. 

The blessed sweetness of a loving breath 
Will reach our cheek all fresh through weary years; 
For her who died long since, ah! waste not tears, 

She's thine unto the end, 
25 



386 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

Thank God for one dead friend; 
With face still radiant with the light of truth, 
Whose love comes laden with the scent of youth, 

Through twenty years of death. 

James Russell Lowell (1819=1891).— James Russell Low- 
ell was born in Cambridge, Mass., in 1819. He was 
educated at Harvard and for more than twenty years was 
Professor of Belles Lettres in that institution. It is diffi- J 
cult to do justice to his work in its various departments; 
his prose lacks the charm of Hawthorne and the neatness 
of Holmes; in poetry he ranks below Bryant and Whit- 
tier. Among his best poems are "The Legend "of Brit- 
tany," "The Vision of Sir Launfal," "The Cathedral" and 
"Under the Willows." His criticisms under the title of 
"Among My Books" and "My Study Windows," are his 
best productions. These display an extensive knowledge 
and sound judgment and are written in a brilliant and 
forcible style. 

LONGING. 

Of all the myriad moods of mind 

That through the soul come thronging, 
Which one was e'er so dear, so kind, 

So beautiful, as Longing? 
The thing we long for, that we are 

For one transcendent moment, 
Before the Present poor and bare 

Can make its sneering comment. 

Still, through our paltry stir and strife, 

Glows down the wished Ideal, 
And longing moulds in clay what Life 

Carves in the marble Real; 
To let the new life in, we know, 

Desire must ope the portal; — 
Perhaps the longing to be so 

Helps make the soul immortal. 




J. RUSSELL LOWELL, 



PROSE WRITERS. 389 

Longing is God's fresh heavenward will, 

With our poor earthward striving; 
We quench it that we may be still 

Content with merely living; 
But would we learn that heart's full scope 

Which we are hourly wronging, 
Our lives must climb from hope to hope, 

And realize our longing. 

Ah! let us hope that to our praise 

Good God not only reckons 
The moments when we tread his ways, 

But when the spirit beckons, — 
That some slight good is also wrought 

Beyond self-satisfaction, 
When we are simply good in thought, 

Howe'er we fail in action. 

FROM AMONG MY BOOKS. 

Dante's ideal of life, the enlightening and strengthening of 
that native instinct of the soul which leads it to strive back- 
ward toward its divine source, may sublimate the senses till 
each becomes a window for the light of truth and the splendor 
of God to shine through. In him, as in Calderon, the per- 
petual presence of imagination not only glorifies the philosophy 
of life, and the science of theology, but idealizes both in sym- 
bols of material beauty. Though Dante's conception of the 
highest end of man was that he should climb through every 
phase of human experience to that transcendental and super- 
sensual region where the true, the good, and the beautiful 
blend, in the white light of God, yet the prism of his imagina- 
tion forever resolved the way into color again, and he loved to 
show it also where, entangled and obstructed in matter, it 
became beautiful once more to the eye of sense 

Complete and harmonious in design as Dante's work is, 
it is yet no Pagan temple enshrining a type of the human made 
divine by triumph of corporeal beauty; it is not a private 
chapel housing a single saint and dedicate to one chosen bloom 
of Christian piety or devotion; it is truly a cathedral over 
whose high altar hangs the emblem of suffering, of the divine 
made human to teach the beauty of adversity, the eternal 



390 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

presence of the spiritual, not overhanging and threatening, 
but informing and sustaining the material. In this cathedral 
of Dante's, there are side-chapels as is fit, with altars to all 
Christian virtues and perfections; hut the great impres- 
sion of its leading thought is that of aspiration forever and 
ever. . . 

He had seen and suffered much, but it is only to the man 
who is himself of value that experience is valuable. He had 
not looked at man and nature as most of us do, with less 
interest than into the columns of our daily newspaper. He 
saw in them the latest authentic news of the God who made 
them, for he carried everywhere that vision washed clear with 
tears, which detects the meaning under the mask, and beneath 
the casual and transitory, the eternal keeping its sleepless 
watch. * * * His verse is as various as the feel- 
ing it conveys; now it has the terseness and edge of steel, and 
now palpitates with iridescent softness like the breast of a 
dove. In vividness he is without a rival. He drags back by 
its tangled locks the unwilling head of some petty traitor 
of an Italian provincial town, lets the fire glare on the sullen 
face for a moment, and it sears itself into the memory forever. 
He shows us an angel glowing with that love of God which 
makes him like a star even amid the glory of heaven, and the 
holy shape keeps lifelong watch in our fantasy constant as 
a sentinel. * * * * * 

We venture on no unworthy comparison between him 
who reveals to us the beauty of this world's love and 
the grandeur of this world's passion, and him who 
shows that the love of God is the fruit whereof all other loves 
are but the beautiful and fleeting blossom, that the passions 
are yet sublimer objects of contemplation when subdued by the 
will they become patient in suffering, and persevering in 
the upward path. But we cannot help thinking that if Shakes- 
peare is the most comprehensive intellect, so Dante is the 
highest spiritual nature that has expressed itself in rhythmical 
form. Had he merely made us feel how petty the ambitions, 
sorrows, and vexations of earth appear when looked down on 
from the heights of our own character and the seclusion of 
our own genius, or from the region where we commune with 
God, he had done much. But he has done more; he has shown 




MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI. 



PROSE WRITERS. 893 

us the way by which that country far beyond the stars may 
be reached, may become the habitual dwelling place and for- 
tress of our nature, instead of being the object of its vague 
aspiration in moments of indolence. "All honor to the loftiest 
of poets!" 

George Bancroft (1800=1891), our national historian, 
was born in Worcester, Massachusetts, in 1800. He was 
educated at Harvard and afterwards studied at Gottingen 
and Berlin, taking the degree of Doctor of Philosophy 
in 1820. His first publications were translations of Schil- 
ler, Goethe, and other German authors, but his great work 
is his "History of the United States." Considered purely 
as a literary work this History ranks high, but from a 
moral point of view it is objectionable owing to the dan- 
gerous theories which it advances in regard to God, man- 
kind and society. 

James Fenimore Cooper (1789=1851) was the first 
American writer to win a European reputation. His 
novels are thirty-three in number. The most popular 
are "The Spy," "The Prairie," 'The Last of the Mohi- 
cans," and "The Pilot." His delineations of border life 
and character are extremely graphic. 

Bayard Taylor (1825=1878), one of the greatest of 
modern travelers, attained high rank both as a poet and a 
novelist. His principal poems are "The Poet's Journal," 
"The Picture of St. John," "Lars" and "Prince Deuka- 
\ lion." Among his novels are "Hannah Thurston," "John 
Godfrey's Fortunes" and "The Story of Kennet." He 
also translated Goethe's "Faust." This translation is the 
more beautiful because he retained the meter as in the 
original. 



304 LESSONS IN LITERATURE. 

William H. Prescott (1796=1859) occupies a permanent 
place among the great historians of the world. His 
principal works are "Ferdinand and Isabella," "Conquest 
of Mexico," "Conquest of Peru'- and a volume of "Mis- 
cellanies." Many of his writings display violent anti- 
Catholic prejudices. 

John Gilmary Shea, D. D. (1821=1892) is a leading 
authority on the early history of North America. His 
chief works are "Discovery and Exploration of the Mis- 
sissippi Valley," "History of the Catholic Missions Among 
the Indian Tribes of the United States," "The Fallen 
Brave," "Legendary History and Ireland" and "History 
of the Catholic Church in the United States." 

Most Reverend Martin John Spalding (1810=1872), late 
Archbishop of Baltimore, one of the most eminent 
Catholic prelates, wrote "Sketches of the Early 
Catholic Missions of Kentucky," "History of the Protest- 
and Reformation in All Countries" and "Miscellanea." 
He wrote also a series of lectures on the "Evidences of 
Catholicity" and a "Pastoral on the Dogma of Infalli- 
bility." 

Very Reverend Isaac T. Hecker (1819=1889) was one 
of the most earnest workers in promoting literary 
interests among the Catholics of the United States. His 
chief works are "Questions of the' Soul" and its sequel, 
"Aspirations of the Soul." Father Hecker was the 
founder of the Catholic World, one of the leading Catho- 
lic magazines published in America. 

Right Reverend John England, D. D. (1786=1842) was 
an able and eloquent divine, a promoter of learning, 
and a friend of every benevolent scheme. His best lit- 
erary productions are his doctrinal discourses. 



PROSE WRITERS. 395 

Brother Azarias (1847=1893) was born in Utica, New 
York. He entered the Christian Brotherhood in 1863. 
His "Essay on the Philosophy of Literature" is filled with 
original ideas; it is suggestive, helpful to sound think- 
ing, not on literature alone but on religion, philosophy 
and art. Besides several articles written for the Catholic 
Quarterly and other periodicals Brother Azarias has pub- 
lished "Development of English Thought," "Aristotle 
and the Christian .Church," "Books and Reading," Cul- 
ture of the Spiritual Sense," "On Thinking," and "Psy- 
chological Aspects of Education." The style of this gifted 
writer is remarkable for beauty, ease, and clearness. 

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850=1895), by birth a Scotch- 
man, was one of the most promising and brilliant 
writers of romance. His principal works are "Treasure 
Island," the "Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" 
and "Kidnapped." In originality, in the conception of 
action and situation, in the union of bracing and heroic 
character and adventure, in all that belongs to tale-writ- 
ing, his gift was exhaustless. He died at the early age of 
forty-four in Samoa, one of the islands of the Southern 
Pacific. 



INDEX. 



PAGE. 

Adams, John 317 

Addison, Joseph 160 

Akenside, Mark 194 

Alfred the Great 16 

Alleyn, Edward 63 

"American Flag" 348 

"Among My Books" 387 

"Anatomy of Melancholy" 106 

Anselm, Saint 21 

"Arcadia" 104 

Ascham, Roger 55 

Austen, Jane . 305 

Autocrat at the Breakfast Table 333 
Azarias, Brother 39a 

Bacon, Roger 21 

Bacon, Sir Francis 92 

Bancroft, George 391 

Banim, John 304 

"Battle of the Books" 157 

"Bay PsalmBook" 314 

Beaumont and Fletcher 103 

Bede, The Venerable 15 

"Beggars' Opera" 194 

Beowulf 9 

Blackstone.Sir William ^... 195 

" Blight and Bloom " 350 

Boccaccio 47 

Brackenridge, Hugh Henry 318 

Bronte, Charlotte 305 

Brown, SirThomas 141 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett 226 

Browning, Robert 222 

Brownson, Orestes 377 

Bryant, William Cullen 329 

Bulwer-Lytton 303 

" Bunker Hill Discourse " 357 

Bunyan,John 139 

Burbage, Richard 63 

Burke, Edmund 183 

Burns, Robert 189 

Burton, Robert 106 

Butler, Alban 194 

Butler, Samuel 137 

Byron, George Gordon 232 

Csedmon 12 

Calderon, Pedro de la Barca 84 

Campbell, Thomas 240 

"Canterbury Tales " 33 

Carlyle, Thomas 290 

Cary, Alice.. 352 

Cary, Phebe 352 

396 



PAGE. 

Caxton, William 51 

Cervantes 83 

Challoner, Richard 194 

" Chambered Nautilus " 339 

Chatterton, Thomas 194 

Chaucer 26 

"Childe Harold " 235 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 229 

Collins, William 194 

Comus 116 

" Conciliation with America " 185 

Cooper, James Fennimore 391 

Corneille 125 

Cowley, Abraham 136 

Cowper, William 186 

Crabbe, George . 245 

Craik, Mrs 306 

Crashaw, Richard „_ 134 

Cromwell, Oliver 108 

"Crossing the Bar "__ 212 

Cuthbert . 16 

D'Alembert . 153 

Dana, Richard Henry 352 

Dante 46 

Darwin, Charles 309 

Davenant, Sir William 147 

" David Copperfield " 287 

Davis, Thomas 244 

"Decameron " 47 

Defoe, Daniel 196 

De Quincey, Thomas _• 293 

"Deserted Village" 176 

Dickens, Charles 283 

Diderot 153 

Digby, Kenelm 303 

" Divina Commedia" 46 

Don Quixote 84 

Drake, Joseph Rodman 348 

"Drapier Letters " 157 

Drayton, Michael 106 

"Dream of Gerontius" 252 

Dryden, John 126 

''Elegy written in a Country 

Churchyard" 17» 

Eliot, George 297 

Elizabethan Period 57 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo 367 

England, Rt. Rev. John 392 

"Essay on Burns" 291 

"Essay on Compensation" 368 

on Man" 151 



INDEX. 



397 



PAGE. 

" Essay on the Sublime and Beau- 
tiful" . J&J 

"Euphues" J* 

" Evangeline " 32d 

Evelyn, John... 1*^ 

Eaber, Frederick William 294 

"Fabiola" 259 

"Faerie Queen" -- 89 

Fichte 154 

Fielding, Henry 19o 

Fletcher, John :. 108 

'* Forever" 385 

Franklin, Benjamin 313 

Freneau, Philip 314 

Fullerton, Lady Georgiana 305 

Gay, John... 194 

" Gentle Shepherd " 193 

Geoffrey of Monmouth 18 

Gibbon, Edward 196 

Goldsmith, Oliver 172 

" Gorboduc " 107 

Gower, John 50 

Gray, Thomas 178 

Griffin, Gerald 304 

Grote, George 302 

Gulliver's Travels 158 

Habington, William 140 

"Hail Columbia" — 355 

Hallam, Henry 302 

Halleck, Fitz Greene 345 

Hamilton, Alexander 317 

Hathaway, Ann 67 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel 360 

Hecker, Very Rev. I. T 392 

Hegel 154 

Herbert, George 107 

Herrick, Robert 140 

" Hind and Panther " 133 

Hobbes, Thomas 141 

" Hohenlinden " 240 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell... 335 

"Home Sweet Home" 355 

Hood, Thomas 244 

Hopkinson, Francis 313 

Hopkinson, John 355 

Hopkinson, Joseph 313 

"Hudibras" 139 

Hume, David 195 

Hunt, Leigh 303 

Huxley, Henry 309 

Hyde, Edward... 141 

"II Penseroso" 112 

V Intimations of Immortality "... 206 
Irving, Washington 372 

Jameson, Mrs. Anna 309 

Jefferson, Thomas ,. 317 

Jeffrey, Francis 306 

"Jew of Malta".... 63-107 

Johnson, Samuel 166 

Jonson, Ben 98 

Junius ._„,„.„..,.,.,_, «... 195 



PAGE. 

.Kant 154 

Keats, John 220 

Keble, John 244 

Key, Francis Scott 355 

Kingsley, Charles 306 

Klopstock... 154 

"Lady of the Lake" 268 

"L'Allegro" 112 

Lamb, Charles 296 

"Lament of Mary Queen of Scots" 190 

Landor, Walter Savage 303 

Lanfranc 21 

Lanier, Sidney 349 

Layamon 21 

"Lead Kindly Light" 249 

Lessing 154 

Letters of Junius 195 

Lever, Charles 305 

"Leviathan" 141 

Lingard, John 301 

"Lives of the Saints " 194 

Locke, John 141 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth.. 321 

"Longinsr" 386 

Lope de "Vega 82 

"Lotos Eaters" 217 

Lover, Samuel 305 

Lowell, James Russell 386 

"Lycidas" 112 

Lyly, John 106 

Macaulay, Thomas Babington... 271 

"Macbeth" 70 

MacCarthy, Denis Florence 242 

Madison, James 317 

•'Maidenhood" 328 

Mandeville, Sir John 48 

Manning, Cardinal 260 

"Marco Bozzaris" 346 

Marlowe, Christopher 107 

" Marmion " 269 

Marryatt, Captain 304 

Marshall, John 318 

Marshall, Thomas William 302 

Massinger, Philip 108 

McGee, Thomas D'Arcy 306 

Miles, George Henry +, 350 

Milman, Henry Hart 306 

Milton, John 111 

Miracle Plays 61 

Moliere 125 

Montague, Lady Mary 197 

Montaigne 85 

Montesquien 153 

Moore, Thomas 236 

More, Hannah 197 

More, Sir Thomas 52 

Muloch, Dinah Maria 306 

Newman, Cardinal 246 

Newton. Sir Isaac 141 

" New Way to Pay Old Debts "... 108 

" Night Thoughts " 193 

Norman Conquest 18 



398 



INDEX. 



PAGE. 

"Ode to a Nightingale" 220 

" Ode to Mont Blanc " 230 

"Ode to the Passions" 194 

"Old Familiar Faces" 296 

O'Reilly, John Boyle 381 

Otis, James 312 

Oxford Movement 249 

" Paradise Lost " 116 

"Paraphrase," Caedmon's 12 

Payne, John Howard 352 

Pepys, Samuel... 142 

Petrarch 47 

"Pilgrim's Progress" 140 

Poe, Edgar Allen 340 

"Polyolbion" 106 

Pope, Alexander 145 

"Prayerto Our Lady" 31 

Prescott, William H 392 

Proctor, Adelaide Anne 241 

Prologue to the Canterbury Tales 36 
"Prospice".. 222 

Racine 126 

Raleigh, Sir Walter 105 

" Ralph Roister Doister"... 62 

Ramsay, Allen 193 

"Rasselas" 169 

Reade, Charles 304 

Rhyming Chroniclers 22 

Richardson, Samuel 196 

Robertson, William 196 

Rogers, Samuel.. ... 244 

Rossetti, Christina 243 

Rossetti, Dante Gabriel 244 

Rousseau 153 

Ryan, Rev. Abram J 351 

Sackville, Thomas 107 

St. Anselm 21 

" St. Agnes" 219 

Sander, Nicholas 106 

Sandys, George. 312 

Saxe, John Godfrey.. 352 

"Scarlet Letter" 363 

" School for Scandal " 195 

Scott, Sir Walter 264 

Shakespeare, William 64 

Shea, John Gilmary 892 

Sheil, Richard Lalor.... 301 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe 238 

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley...... 195 

Sidney, Sir Philip... 104 

Smith, Adam.. 195 

Smith, Sydney 306 

Smollett, Tobias George 196 

" Song of Marion's Men" 333 

" Sonnets from the Portuguese ".. 226 



PAGE. 

Southey, Robert _ 244 

Southwell, Robert 101 

Spalding, Most Rev. John 392 

Spencer, Herbert.. 309 

Spenser, Edmund 85 

Steele, Sir Richard. 165 

Sterne, Laurence _ 197 

Stevenson, Robert Louis 393 

Strickland, Agnes... 309 

"Summer Longings" 242 

Swift, Jonathan ... 155 

"Tale of a Tub" 156 

"Tamburlaine " 107 

Taylor,Bayard 391 

Temple, Sir William 141 

Tennyson, Alfred 211 

Thackeray, William Makepeace.. 278 

"The Cloud" 239 

"The Deserted Village " 176 

"The One Want" 295 

"The Rhodora" 368 

"The Seasons" 194 

"The Sleep" 226 

"The Task ".... 187 

"The Traveler"... 175 

"The Two Pasties" 50 

"The Wild Honeysuckle".. 314 

Thomson, James 194 

"Through Peace to Light" 241 

"Time Goes by Turns"... 103 

Timrod, Henry ._ 350 

"To a Skylark" 205 

" To a Waterfowl" 330 

"Toxophilus" 55 

"Tristram Shandy" 197 

Trollope, Anthony.. 305 

Tyndall, John 309 

"Ulalume" 343 

" Utopia " 53 

" Voyages and Travels " 48 

Wace 21 

Waller, Edmund 140 

Walpole, Horace 195 

Walton, Izaak 141 j 

" Weary " 243 

Wealth of Nations 195 

Webster, Daniel 356 

" Westminster Abbey " 376- 

Williams, Roger 312 

Willis, Nathaniel P 352 

Wirt, William ._ 318 

Wiseman, Cardinal 256 

Wordsworth, William 200 

Young, Edward 198 



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JM 



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